


Other brother mine

by ko_writes



Category: Coraline (2009), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Crossover, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, I guess it could be called horror..., John's a bit OCC, M/M, Minor character death (sort of), Teenlock, buttons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, Mycroft and their father have had to move into Baker Palace after their mother died. Sherlock hates the new flat and their land-lady's nephew, John; who's a bit of an idiot. But that changes with a key to a tiny door...</p><p>Inspired by this image: https://33.media.tumblr.com/35b1f248295690cd38a5f168daab0cbe/tumblr_mq8es8pbNx1s9o6z6o1_400.png</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Water-Witch

   The elderly Rolls-Royce Sherlock’s father drove spluttered towards a rambling old Queen Anne-style house with tacked-on outside stairs. A sign by the muddy path read "Baker Palace, Apartment for Rent".

   Sherlock huffed in the back seat; why did they have to move? Mummy died, yes; but why couldn’t they just stay in London?

   “We can’t afford it, Sherlock,” Mycroft glared at his younger brother from the passenger seat, pretending he could read his mind again, “We only have one income now.”

   “Two,” Sherlock corrected.

   “You know I don’t get paid,” Mycroft said regretfully, “But this is my chance to do great things with my life, Sherlock; and I’m not giving that up so we can live sixteen miles away. It’s twenty minutes by car –”

   “Then why do I have to go to some back-water, run down school?” Sherlock questioned.

   “The move puts you out of your old school’s district. But it _is_ a good school, Sherlock…” Sherlock’s father tried to assure.

   “No.”

   It was late winter, the sky damp and grey; it was _freezing cold_. Sherlock pulled the flannel blanket tighter around his shoulders. The rest of the drive was silent as they followed the removal men.

   Sherlock’s eye caught a tall man performing calisthenics on the rooftop, counting in Russian - Mr Anderson. “Dras, dva, tri, chetyri. Dras, dva, tri, chetyri. Dras, dva, tri...” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, Mycroft stared at the man in vague distaste, but their father seemed quite amused. As soon as Mycroft saw their father’s expression he sighed in mortification and rested his cheek on the hand propped up by the window. It was rather obvious he was a teenager when he decided to sulk because of their father’s ‘misconduct’.

   Beeping pips began as the tired, tatty moving van backed into the most convenient place, and Anderson paused. The Rolls-Royce, suitcases roped to its top, recklessly passed the truck - as was Sherlock’s father’s driving style - and disappeared around the side of the house. Anderson shook his fist angrily after the car and shouted, “Mer-sa-vich!” and marched away indignantly.

   “We're here. Time to muscle up,” One of the movers commented from inside the van.

   The moving truck's rear doors were wrenched open by two men.

   Irene Adler, a busty old English lady, surveyed the movers as they passed by her chair-lift with boxes and furniture. The old girl couldn't wait to tell her flat mate below about the young, strapping men.

   After a few hours, the job was finished.

~*~

   Sherlock stepped onto the porch in his large, woollen Belstaff coat with a satchel. He glanced furtively over his shoulder, and then hopped down the steps and away from the house. He danced and twirled down the path, happy that he could practise (sort of) without the prying eyes watching him and whispered rumours.

His eye caught a wooden shrub and he smiled. Experiment.

   He leapt towards it and reached into the shrub, to break off a forked branch. He removed the stick's red leaves, aimed it and bounded into the garden. He had wanted to do experiments with dowsing rods for some time, at least this gave him the means – but he still wasn’t happy.

   A spy rose up, wearing a three-eyed skeleton mask on his head and skeleton gloves on his hands. A small dog with red fur bounded next to them and glanced up, before following Sherlock into the garden.

~*~

   Sherlock explored the drained, crumbling pond. He found an old turtle shell in the muck and held it up. “Cool,” he muttered under his breath. After tapping on it to make sure it was empty, he put the shell into his shoulder bag.

He turned back to his experiment, aiming his ‘dowsing rod’ once more, following it up from the pond and out the back gate.

~*~

   The sky was dark with the gathering storm as Sherlock balanced like a tightrope walker along the steep hillside path. He stepped on an old railroad tie; but his foot sank into the rotted wood, stopping him.

   Some stones dislodged and rolled down past him. He jerked his head up, looking for signs of the disturbance.

   Ah… Someone was _following_ him. “Hello...?   Who's there?” Sherlock called, maybe they’d just own up. It seemed not.

   He threw a rock over the wall of stones, hitting the unseen spy, causing a cry of pain. He couldn’t even tell if it was animal or human. Freaked out, he gasped and ran up the trail.

   The red dog jumped onto the stone wall.

~*~

   Sherlock raced down past a rusted tractor and into an orchard. The wind began to pick up, tousling his dark navy curls. He nearly tripped on the tongue of a harvest cart as he ran past barren apple trees, contorted and dark.

   He backed into a circle of toadstools in front of a tree stump. Breathing hard, he looked out for his pursuer.

   The red dog shot past him in the tall grass. Sherlock couldn't see the animal but he knew something was there. Already behind him now, the dog jumped onto the stump with a loud, warning bark.

   Startled, Sherlock yelled and whipped around. He was both angry and relieved when he saw it was just some mangy dog.

   “You scared me to death, you stupid mutt!” He hollered. The dog just glared at him with blue eyes, making a low growl as he stood.

   Sherlock huffed, “I'm just looking for an old well. Know it?” The dog blinked their eyes slowly, “Not talking, huh?” he asked sarcastically.

   The wind picked up. He grasped the forks of his stick, closed his eyes, and, tracing a figure eight above him, chanted, “Magic dowser, magic dowser: show... me... the well!”

   The spy blared down the hillside, astride some kind of motor-bike. He pressed a button on the handlebars and blasted a loud air horn.

   Scared, Sherlock span around. As lightning flashed and thunder rolled, Sherlock saw him for the first time. With his turret-lensed skull mask and skeleton gloves and black military coat flapping in the wind; he looked like a psychopathic killer!

   He revved his motor, popped a wheelie, and then swooped down the bluff towards Sherlock. He screamed in fear, and then tried to hit the spy with his forked stick. “Get away from me –!”

   The spy snatched it from him as he passed, knocking Sherlock to the ground. He side-skidded his bike, jumped off and sprang onto the stump. Looking ten feet tall from the ground, thunder and lightning at a peak, the Spy turned his three-eyed turret lens and studied the skinny boy like a predatory alien.

   All of a sudden, the thunder and lightning die down and the psychopathic killer, three-eyed spy pulled off his mask and Sherlock gasped – he was just a short kid in a costume.

   Shoulders hunched, neck bent, the Spy looked only a few years older than him – about fifteen. He had cropped, sandy blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He short teenager examined Sherlock's dowsing rod, and aimed it around.

   Oblivious to Sherlock’s scowl, the boy started to speak, “Let me guess, you're from Texas or Utah; somewhere dried out and barren, right? I’ve heard about water-witching before but it doesn't make sense; I mean, it's just an ordinary branch.”

   Sherlock snatched it from his gloved hands. “IT'S A DOWSING ROD!” He squeaked, more than yelled, enraged, “It’s an experiment!” Sherlock smacked the boy on the back of the head. He could see he was actually an inch taller, despite being only thirteen.

   “Ow!” The older boy whined.

   “And I _don’t like being stalked_ , not by _psycho-nerds or their dogs_!” Sherlock screamed.

    The blonde crouched, nervous, to scratch the dog behind his ears. “He's not really my dog; he's sort of feral you know, wild? Of course, I do feed him every night and –”

   “Shut up! I don’t care about your stupid dog! Cats are much better anyway, they bring you little dead things…”

   “Cool!” The shorter smiled, “But give me dogs anyday.”

   “To answer your question, if you can’t already tell, I'm from London. And if I'm a ‘water witch’, then –” Sherlock pointed his stick and stomped his foot, “Where's the secret well?”

   “If you stomp too hard and you'll fall in it!” the other boy warned.

   Sherlock leapt quickly out of the springy circle. The blonde boy scraped at the ground, revealing a wooden, circular covering. He wedged a fallen branch under one side, and, using a rock for the fulcrum, pried up the covering.

   “See? It’s supposed to be so deep if you fell to the bottom and looked up, you'd see a sky full of stars in the middle of the day.”

   Sherlock softened, “Huh,” he breathed. His frown relaxed and the red dog tilted his head, noticing his change in tone. The stepped off the branch, and the well cover thumped back into place.

   “I’m surprised she let you move in...” The boy began, jerking his head toward the washed-out house in distance. “... My Aunt; Mrs Hudson; she owns the "Baker Palace". She won't rent to people with kids…”

   “What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, this house might just be _interesting_.

    The blonde was suddenly worried. Curious. “Uh... I'm not supposed to talk about it…” Changing the subject, he lifted a gloved hand to shake, “I'm John, John Watson. What'd you get saddled with?”

   “I wasn't saddled with anything. It's Sherlock.” Sherlock huffed.

   “Sheldon what?”

   “Sherlock! William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

   John sounded confused, not hearing the correction. “Hmmm... It's not really ‘scientific’, but I heard an ordinary name, like Sheldon –” Sherlock’s face goes as dark as the rain clouds above, “Can lead people to have ordinary expectations about a person –”

   “John!” A call carried on the wind.

   “I think I heard someone calling you, John,” Sherlock informed with gritted teeth.

   “What? I didn't hear anything –”

   “Oh, I definitely heard someone,” Sherlock pouted, “And I’m not ordinary; don’t make that mistake.”

   A distant dinner bell clanged.

   “John!” The call came again.

   “Auntie!” John gasped under his breath, nervous. He held up his hands in surrender, nodding with eyes closed, forcing some laughs, “Ha. Well, great to meet a London water witch.” He picked up his bike, wheeled it around, and then held up his gloved hands. “But I'd wear gloves next time.”

   “Why?” Sherlock asked sceptically.

   John pointed to his dowsing rod, and nodded.

   “`Cause that dowsing rod of yours? Uh, you're allergic to it.”

   “Ehh!!” Sherlock shrieked, dropping the stick as John zoomed away, and wiped his hands on his clothes - but a red rash had already started.

   The dog barked at him, and then trotted away after John. Sherlock stuck out his tongue at him.

   Sherlock looked down at the covering to the well. He found a pebble and dropped it through a small knot-hole. He pressed his ear to the hole, counting until there was a watery ‘plop’ far below.

   Fat raindrops started to fall around him.


	2. Little me, little locked door, little button key

   The rain rattled the window as it pounded on the glass. Sherlock looked out of the window at the dead-looking garden, and placed a new dissection scalpel – still in its plastic – on the sill; he wanted to go out and find more subjects to dissect.. He scratched his developed rash on one hand.

   The main floor kitchen, like most things in the Baker Palace, was barely maintained, and looked worn and faded.

   “Get that off the window sill, psychopath; lord knows what you killed with it,” Mycroft murmured; his fountain pen scratched away at his paperwork on the table, cardboard boxes stacked nearby. He looked exhausted after his day at work.

   “I don’t kill them, I just dissect the dead ones,” Mycroft wasn’t listening anymore. “I almost fell down a well yesterday, Mycroft,” Sherlock stated, bored, wanting a reaction.

   “Uh huh,” Mycroft muttered, unhearing.

   “I would have died,” Sherlock stated.

   “That's nice,” Mycroft commented, definitely not listening.

   Sherlock scratched the rash on his hand, changing the subject. “Hmmm. So can I go out? I think it's perfect weather for scavenging.”

   Mycroft sighed. So he wasn’t deaf, then. “No, Sherlock. Rain makes mud. Mud makes a mess.”

   Sherlock turned to his brother turned surrogate mother. “But Mycroft, I’m bored!” When Mycroft didn’t answer, Sherlock muttered, “I can't believe it - you and Dad are both scientists and you hate dirt.”

   Mycroft stopped writing, losing his patience. “Sherlock, I’m not a scientist anymore; I’m a politician. I don't have time for you right now. And you still have unpacking to do. Lots of unpacking.”

   “That sounds exciting,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

   Mycroft remembered something. “Oh - some child left this on the doorstep…”

   “Say ‘kid’, Mycroft – there’s nothing wrong with that.” Sherlock walked over to his brother and was handed a newspaper-wrapped package. Attached note read: ‘Hey Shelly,’ Sherlock growled, ‘look what I found in Auntie's trunk. Look familiar? John’. He ripped open the package and found a button-eyed, dark-navy-haired, Belstaff coat-wearing doll. “A… little me? Curious…” Sherlock muttered to himself. He crumpled the note, both annoyed and charmed.

   “What's his name, anyway?” Mycroft asked, paperwork forgotten for that moment.

   “John. Boring! And I'm way too old for dolls…” Sherlock announced, but he took it with him as left the room.

~*~

   Mr Homes entered results data into his ancient computer, surrounded by boxes of dusty textbooks and empty coffee cups.

   Sherlock, with the doll, opened the squeaky door. His father didn't turn. “Hello father, how are the experiments going...? Father?”

   He ignored Sherlock’s reflection in his computer screen as he typed away, green letters on black. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Hello, Sherlock...” He sighed, moral destroyed after hours of data-input. He finally noticed the doll's reflection, “And... Sherlock doll...?”

   “Do you know where the dissection tools are?” Sherlock asked, adding just the right amount of sugary sweetness into his voice.

   His father heard the rain outside. “It's pouring out there, isn't it?” He asked.

   “It's just raining,” The navy haired boy pouted.

   “What'd the boss say?” Sherlock groaned at his father calling Mycroft ‘the boss’.

   “"Don't even think about going out, Sherlock Holmes!"” he imitated mockingly.

   “Then you won't need the equipment.” Sherlock groaned again and stamped his feet. His father just tapped harder on the keys. Pouting, he made the door squeak, opening and shutting it until his father couldn't take any more. He span around in his desk chair, “This house is a hundred and fifty years old.”

   “So?” Sherlock asked gravely; being this bored was _serious_.

   “So explore it!” He grabbed a pen and pad, and held it out. “Go out and... count all the doors and windows and write that down. List everything blue! Just let me work.”

   Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking the paper and pen, and left.

~*~

   In the hallway near the stairs; Sherlock, with the doll, jumped on a bump in the worn carpet, but it moved with each jump.

~*~

   In the utility room, Sherlock wiped off the misted glass so he and, in a childish moment of whim, the doll could see out, then wrote in his pad: ‘7 leaky windows’.

   A drop of water landed on the pad, smearing the ink. He added ‘really’ between ‘7’ and ‘leaky windows’.

~*~

In the hallway near the stairs, _again_ , Sherlock thumped the carpet bump _again_ and pounded up the stairs.

~*~

   In his father’s bedroom; a framed photo sat on the bedside table, showing a younger, happier Sherlock with his parents and Mycroft by the bear fountain at the Detroit Zoo; their last holiday before mummy got sick. Sherlock pushed himself off the bed, where he sat staring at the picture. He dropped to the ground and, doll and pad in hand, decided to explore the bathroom.

   He ignored the bottle of perfume mummy used to wear on the counter, and headed towards the bath/shower. He pulled aside the mildewed shower curtain to find hundreds of skittering Silverfish bugs.

   “Ewww!” Sherlock gasped. Disgusted, he jumped into the tub and squashed as many as he could. He turned on the tap to wash his hands, only to get soaked with rusty water from the shower head. “Ahh!!”

   He shook out his curls.

~*~

   The hallway, _again_ ; he had no patience for repetition.

   Sherlock pounded down the stairs, spotted the carpet bump _again_ in the hallway and jumped on it in frustration. A closet door opened, a light on inside, and he went to investigate.

   Sherlock jotted down ‘one rusty water heater’ in his pad. As he left, he flicked off the light switch, not noticing a note taped beside it that said: ‘Do not turn off!’

   In Mr Holmes’ study, the lights flickered and then his computer died. He yelled, “No, no, no, no, no; GAAAA--!”

   In the hallway, Sherlock heard his father’s scream, “-AAAAAAA!”

   Sherlock reacted with guilty alarm, running back to the closet and spots the ‘Do not turn off’ note. He flipped the light switch back on and ran back.

~*~

   Sherlock twirled, distractedly, into the living room. The room was faded and cold with bare windows looking out on rain and grey sky. The floor was strewn with boxes, a few pieces of furniture, and Mr Holmes' old Nordic Track. A few test tubes and such leaned against one wall, and a cardboard mattress box against a corner wall.

   Sherlock counted windows and doors to note in his pad as he walked around the room on pointe. He set the doll on a low table beside an open moving box and smiled slightly. The box was filled with his brother's collection of snow globes. He took out his favourite - the bear fountain at the Detroit Zoo - and shook it. He studied the globe and set it carefully on the fireplace mantel, then unwrapped the rest of the snow globes and placed them beside it.

   Over the mantel hung a painting of a crying boy in blue - a scoop of ice cream melting on his shirt, his hand holding an empty cone. Sherlock took up the pad and pen and adds to his list, muttering aloud, “One boring blue boy in a painfully boring painting... four incredibly boring windows... and no... more... doors...” He turned to grab the doll off the table by the snow globe box, but it was gone… Impossible, surely. “All right, little me, where are you hiding?”

   Scanning the room, he spotted the doll looking out from behind the mattress box leaned against the corner wall.

   Perplexed, he walked over and kneeled down to grab the doll when he noticed something on the wall behind the box.

   He shoved the box aside, and discovered the outline of a small door that had been wallpapered over. “Huh?”

   Curiosity eating at him, he called to the kitchen, “Hey Mycroft...!” But his older brother ignored him. “Where does this door go?”

   “I'm really, really busy!” Mycroft called back.

   Sherlock tried to open the door, but there was no handle. “I think it's locked.”

   Mycroft hauled himself up on numb legs, really annoyed, heaving a big sigh.

   He walked over to Sherlock and glanced at the outline of the door in the ratty old wallpaper. “Will you stop pestering me if I do this for you?” Sherlock nodded his head quickly. Dear God, he was whimpering like a kicked puppy! “Fine.”

   Mycroft strode back to the kitchen, pulled open a drawer, pushed loose brass and nickel keys aside to find a small, sharp black key with a button decal and held it up.

   Back in the living room, Mycroft cut the wallpaper around the door and slid the key into the lock. Sherlock looked on, giddy with anticipation, the doll at his side. The door unlocked and Mycroft and pulled it open to reveal... an unbroken brick wall. Sherlock slumped, gaping at the wall. That wasn’t supposed to be the outcome. “Bricks? I don't understand.” He scratched his rash with annoyance.

   “They must have closed this off when they divided up the house, Sherlock; nothing more,” Mycroft sighed and pushed himself to his feet.

   “You're joking? And why is the door so small?” Sherlock questioned.

   “We made a deal. SHUT UP!” Mycroft sulked as he left; he had to get through twenty more forms in the next few hours. Sherlock made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat before breaking out in a small, smug smile.

   “You didn't lock it.”

   He laughed when he heard his brother’s growled moan and pushed the little door shut.


	3. The Other Brother

   The rain was still pouring outside as Mr Holmes served dinner, singing a song about Sherlock, really badly. “Oh, my twitchy witchy boy –” Using an oven mitt to protect his hand, he took a charred casserole dish from the oven while Mycroft shifted his completed files into his dark tan satchel. Sherlock sat at the table with his doll. “I think you are so nice, I give you bowls of porridge, and I give you bowls of ice –” He set the dish on the table, “Cream!”

   Sherlock pushed it away, disgusted. “I’m fine, I ate yesterday.”

   “Eat it, idiot,” Mycroft glared at Sherlock, “You need to eat; I can count your ribs.”

   “I’m _fine_ ; it’s not like this is appetising, anyway – sorry dad. Why don't you ever cook, Mycroft?” Sherlock huffed for what seemed the hundredth time that day.

   “Sherlock, we've been through this before: father cooks, I clean, and you stay out of the way,” Mycroft smiled smugly; Sherlock gave him his best death-glare, but coming from a spindly, underweight teenager who was more knees and elbows than anything else – the effect was lost. “I swear I'll go food shopping soon as we finish the campaign. Try some of the chard, you need a vegetable.”

   “Looks more like slime to me,” Sherlock commented.

   “Well, it's slime or bedtime fusspot – now what's it going to be?” Sherlock’s father asked.

   Sherlock looked to his doll and cradled its head. “Think they're trying to poison me?” He asked the doll, he made the doll's head nod ‘yes’.           

~*~

   Sherlock fell back, washed and dressed for bed, onto the mattress. He put the doll on the chair beside him, and then scratched at his wrist. Origami bees were strung between the tall, thin bed posts; the turtle shell he found in the garden sat up on a box. Despite his efforts at decorating, Sherlock's new bedroom – which he shared with Mycroft – felt small and cold, cracked and faded.

   Sherlock reached for a framed photo that rested by his brother’s bed. It was of his brother – unrecognisable in a leather jacket that wasn’t his – and his boyfriend, Greg Lestrade. The nineteen year old boy had a motorbike and was starting in New Scotland Yard; Sherlock liked him. In the photo, Lestrade had an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder, kissing him on the temple as he blushed.

   “Don't forget about Mycroft, Lestrade. Okay? You need to come soon; he’s unbearable,” Sherlock whispered before putting the photo back in its place and hit the light switch over his bed and, looking over at the doll, sighed, “Good-night… little me.”

   His breathing slowed and, with the doll watching him, he started to fall asleep.

~*~

   Surreal mist swirled outside of his window. Something in the room began to tick.

   Sherlock sat up, awake. Something chittered under his bed. He leaned over his bedside, head first, peering underneath when a ghost-pale kangaroo-like mouse jumped out and bounded out the door.

   Sherlock chased it; down the upper hall, down the stairs; he snapped on the lower hall light to see the mouse hop into the living room. He followed.

   The mouse edged out from beneath the sofa, then bounced frantically toward the small door behind the wallpaper. Sherlock ran and dived, but the door was open a crack, and the mouse escaped.

   Sherlock grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it open. Instead of a brick wall, there was a dark, expanding tunnel, the hopping mouse heading toward a bluish light at the far end.

   “But… That’s impossible…” Sherlock gasped. He needed to investigate.

   He caught his breath, pulled the door wider and crawled through. Sherlock moved forward, toward the light ahead.

   Sherlock stepped out through the same little door, into what looked like the exact same living room he just left; only something was different, something he couldn’t place exactly – it felt deeper, more dimensional.

   “This has to be impossible!”

   He looked around, and noticed the painting over the fireplace: the crying blue boy was now _smiling_ , his shirt clean and his ice cream back on its cone.

   “What?” Sherlock questioned the air.

   From across the hall, warm light came from the kitchen and the smell of delicious food wafted towards his nose. He might of lied about eating the day before – it’d been over four days. His stomach growled painfully. “Mm, something smells good,” Sherlock hummed as he walked into the kitchen. It had been too long.

   Sherlock entered the kitchen to see Mycroft cooking at the stove, wearing a silly pink apron and ridiculous rooster-head oven mitts. The light and colours were much warmer and the details more perfect than he remembered. Mycroft was facing away from him as he gently stirred the red sauce heating on the stove. “Mycroft?! What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

   Mycroft turned from the steaming sauce to greet him and Sherlock’s mouth fell and shock filled his eyes: Mycroft had _black buttons for eyes_! Not-Mycroft beamed with happiness at Sherlock's arrival. “You're just in time for supper, brother dear!” He said sweetly.

   “You're not my brother,” Sherlock accused, “My brother doesn't have b-b-buh...” Sherlock pointed to his own eye.

   “B-b-b-buttons? Do you like them?” Not-Mycroft asked, smiling a Cheshire Cat grin, he tapped one with his finger. “I'm your Other Brother, silly” The Other Brother said fondly, with no hint of malice, “Now go tell your Other Father that supper's ready. You must be hungry…” Other Brother opened the oven door and the intoxicating perfume of great cooking filled the air. Sherlock breathed it in, suddenly ravenous. “Well, go on. He's in his lab.”

   Sherlock walked – on pointe, as he sometimes did when nervous – down the hall and opened the study door.

   He saw the back of a man like his father, only with darker hair. Instead of tapping away at his computer, though, he was picking at strings on a cello.

   “Hello?” Sherlock asked.

   The ‘Other Father’ turned around. He, too, had shiny black buttons sewn into his face where his eyes would be. He seemed happier and a little more handsome than Sherlock’s real father, and wore a bright lemon yellow shirt, with a blue bow tie. He smiled broadly. Everything felt so… fake.

   “Hello, Sherlock. Do you want to play with me?” The Other Father gestured to a violin on the table next to the door. This wasn’t Sherlock’s. It was the purple one he’d asked for that Mycroft said was garish.

   “My father can't play cello,” Sherlock stated suspiciously.

   “No need to... this cello plays _me_!” The Other Father smiled even broader – if possible. Gloves, as seen in the likes of Dr Seuss, connected with rods and pulleys popped out of the cello's scroll and onto his hands.

   Sherlock blinked in surprise. Surely those gloves were too big to fit in there…

   The Other Father’s hands raised up ­ then dropped down in preparation to play. “What shall we play? Beethoven?” He pulled the bow across the strings delicately while playing the opening bars to Beethoven’s Cello Sonata 1 with is nose held in the air in an exaggerated snooty expression – Sherlock giggled. “Or something a bit more _fun_.”

   Sherlock picked up the violin and placed his cheek on the rest while positioning his fingers.

   The Other Father began to play Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal. Sherlock played along, never missing a note. He even added little scraping notes to accent it – The Other father praised each one, not yelling about how violin strings were expensive and Sherlock was wearing them down.

   Mycroft appeared in the doorway. “Come on you two – the food’s ready,” He smiled, buttons shining sharply in the light – like the blade of a knife.

   “Mm! Who's starving? Raise your hand.” The Other Father raised his hand up, still in a glove, and his other gloved hand slapped his face.

   Sherlock giggled and Mycroft laughed, shaking his head fondly.

   They walked out of the room together, joking as they went – as they had done before their mother died.

~*~

   Other Brother set down a huge roasted chicken near Sherlock on a table spread with candles, fine china and silver, and a skull centrepiece. Figure eight model train tracks circle dishes of potatoes, sweet peas, rolls, and corn.

   A starting bell rang and it was time to eat. Other Father ate with gusto in while Sherlock sniffed at a piece of chicken at the edge of his fork.

   “It’s alright, brother dear; you haven’t eaten in days, you must want something. But you can go to bed if you want…”

   “What?” Sherlock’s eyes snapped towards the Other Brother’s buttons. Definitely not Mycroft.

   “You don’t have to eat if you don’t want…” The other brother shrugged airily, unnatural smile still in place.

   “O… Kay,” Sherlock didn’t know what to say, “I-I think I will have something, though…”

   “Only if you want,” The Other Brother assured; that smile was just so strange and out of place.

   Sherlock brought the chicken to his lips and plucked it off the fork with his teeth. He chewed, “Mmmm, this chicken is good!” He exclaimed before swallowing. As soon as it hit his stomach he was in a frenzy. He piled potatoes high on his plate, took more chicken, pea; everything he could reach.

   Hungry, aren't you?” The Other Brother said kindly, softly.

   Sherlock shovelled a large forkful of chicken into his mouth. He nodded, mouth full, “D'you have any gravy?”

   “Well, here comes the gravy train! Choo-choo!” The Other Brother laughed. A model train circled around the track, pulling a gravy boat car and blowing its whistle.

   The train went in one side of the centrepiece and came out the other, slowing till the gravy boat lined up with Sherlock's plate, where it poured gravy on his potatoes.

   Sherlock crammed as much food in his mouth as the small space would allow without choking himself. Gravy ran down his slightly spotty chin.

   The Other Brother put a hand on his shoulder, “It’s alright Sherlock,” He began stroking Sherlock’s arm, “Don’t gorge yourself, slow down, your stomach will cramp.”

   Sherlock slowed down gradually before putting his knife and fork on his empty plate. He curled his arms around his now distended abdomen in mind discomfort but more satisfaction of being full.

   “I'm parched,” Sherlock commented.

   “Of course! Any requests?” Mycroft asked, that smile never left his face, like it had been sewn on like his buttons.

   A beautiful Chandelier drink dispenser descended. Sherlock gaped at it in awe before rearranging his face in a smug smile. “Honeycomb chocolate milkshake?” He asked.

   The dispenser span, stopped and filled his glass while the Other Brother presented dessert: a cake with candles that popped up and lit themselves while the words "WELCOME HOME!" wrote themselves in icing. Sherlock was taken aback. “Home?”

   The Other Brother and father smiled warmly at his befuddled expression. “We've been waiting for you, Sherlock.”

   “For me?” Sherlock frowned; Mycroft and father often thought of him as an annoyance, why had their counterparts wanted to see him?

   “Yes. It wasn't the same here without you,” The Other Father smiled.

   Sherlock remained a little unsure. “I didn't know I had an Other Brother…”

   “Of course you do. Everyone does,” The Other Brother smiled, button eyes gleaming.

   “Really?”

   “Yes, and soon as you're through eating, I thought we'd go scavenging,” The Other Brother tapped his fingers a little too excitedly on the table.

   “What about the mud?” Sherlock asked.

   “We love mud here!” The Other Father exclaimed happily, “And I’ve been doing research on the soothing effect it can have on rashes.” He took Sherlock's rash-y hand, but Sherlock pulled it away, suspicious.

   “How did you know I –” Sherlock adjusted his tone, “I-I'd love to play, but... I better get home to my other brother…”

   “But I'm your other brother –”

   “I mean my other other brother. Brother number one?” Sherlock yawned a jaw cracking yawn, “I think I should get to bed.”

   “Of course, brother dear, it's all made up,” The Other Brother informed airily.

   Sherlock shook his head. “But –”

   The Other Father stepped in beside him, “Come along, sleepyhead.”

   The Other Father and The Other Brother lead him from the table towards the stairs to his bedroom.

~*~

   As the door to the bedroom swung open, Sherlock gasped. In this reality, Sherlock's bedroom was a dream come true. The walls were painted a matt, dark navy – like his hair – and the silk bed sheets were a rich purple with a black trim; there was a fire in the fireplace; and his favourite toys are _alive_!

   “Wow!”

   His origami bees fluttered towards him, “Hello Sherlock, hello, hello!”

   His blue squid rag-doll greeted him with a wave of its tentacle, “What's shaking, baby?”

   “Hello,” He greeted shyly.

   The turtle shell he'd found circled his feet on clothes peg legs, making panting and snapping sounds. He laughed, then heard a voice from beside “Mycroft”’s bed.

   “Hello, sunshine!” That was Greg’s voice! Sherlock turned to the photo, Mycroft was gone from it, but Greg was _alive in the picture_ with _button eyes_ , but a coal colour instead of black.

   “Greg!” Sherlock smiled, Greg was always nice and gave him spare crime scene photos, “I can't wait till summer. You're coming, right?”

   “Wouldn’t miss it, sunshine; I’ve got more pictures for you,” Greg smiled. He winked at The Other Brother, who blew a kiss towards the picture – Greg pretended to catch it and held it to his chest.

   Sherlock grinned hugely; then, exhausted, yawned, stretching out his arms.

   The Other brother, sitting in the bedside chair, took his hand and applied some soothing black mud to the rash. “Oh, the mud...” Sherlock sighed, relaxed.

   The Other Brother gently tucked him in, then he and the Other Father smiled at Sherlock as he drifted off to sleep. “See you soon ...” They bid tenderly in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So, yeah; I'm loving this! Please review :)


	4. Cheese, taffy and bannana slugs

   Sherlock awoke in his and Mycroft’s boring old room. How did he get here? He was expecting navies and purples, and magic bees. But it was just his – not even _his_ – normal room: moving boxes; cracks in the ceiling – nothing had changed.

   He noticed the button-eyed doll on the chair where he left it, where the Other Brother was sitting. He picked it up and absentmindedly went to scratch his wrist. He stopped, noticing that the rash on his wrist was gone. “It's gone, my skin irritation, it's gone...!”

~*~

   Sherlock skidded across the floor of the living room, to the little door, still ajar. He peeked behind and finds the wall of solid bricks. “But… that doesn’t make sense!”

   He shook his head and pushed the door shut. The kettle whistled in the kitchen.

~*~

   Mycroft, Sherlock and their father sat around the Breakfast table. Mycroft and Mr Holmes finished their "Breakfast Biscuits" and mugs of instant coffee. Preoccupied with their work – Mycroft reading the politics section of the newspaper while simultaneously checking his emails on his phone; Mr Holmes reading old notes from previous experiments – they half-listened as Sherlock recounted his dream, his breakfast untouched, “It was incredibly real, Mycroft! Only you weren't really you; you were my other brother.”

   “Buttons for eyes?” Mycroft asked disapprovingly, not really meaning it. He indicated Sherlock’s untouched food, “Sherlock, you only dreamed you ate all that chicken. Take your multi-vitamin, at least.”

   Sherlock ignored him. “You were in the dream too, father. You had a wild-looking shirt and blue bow tie!”

   “Blue?” Mr Holmes asked in mock offense, “My bow tie is red.” He stood, and put his dishes in the sink.

   “If the real Siger Holmes wants his equations crosschecked, he'd better wrap them up,” Mycroft reminded his father.

   “Are you going to help father, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

   “Yes, I have the day off so I might as well make myself useful,” Mycroft commented, taking a gulp of coffee.

   “Or sleep for a week; Mycroft, you’re running yourself ragged,” Mr Holmes suggested.

   “I’m fine, father. Besides, you need a crosscheck and Sherlock’s too young and too stupid.”

   “Am not!” Sherlock defended.

   “Yes you are. Now, father; I suggest you go to work so I can get an early start.”

   “Yes, Sir,” Mr Holmes crisply saluted him, turned on his heel, and marched out the door.

   Mycroft rolled his eyes and got up to clear the table with Sherlock. “Sherlock, why don't you go visit downstairs? I bet those "actresses" would love to hear your dream,” He suggested.

   “Miss Adler and Hooper? But you said they're idiots!”

   Mycroft nodded, smiling smugly, “Yes.” Sherlock growled in the back of his throat and got up to go, “And stop growling, brother mine; you aren’t a feral dog.”

~*~

   It was drizzling outside and a white fog had lowered over the house and grounds. Sherlock – clad in his Belstaff coat, plastic specimen bags in hand – opens the front door. Stepping out onto the wooden decking, he tripped on a large bundle of mail. Annoyed, he picks it up and started leafing through the envelopes. “Anderson… Anderson… Anderson…”

   A bad smell caught his nose and he sniffed the envelopes. It was disgusting.

   He hopped down the front steps and found a sign that read "Anderson there" with an arrow that pointed up long, winding outside stairs. With an "oh well" shrug, he climbed up.

   At the top, he knocked on the door, a little anxious. “Hello…?” He knocks again. “I think our post got mixed up. Should I leave it outside or...”

   The door swung open. Curious, Sherlock peered inside. It was dark and cramped with something boiling on the stove and a caged chicken. “Hmmm...” Sherlock hummed.

   Suddenly the tall man he saw exercising on the roof not so long ago swung down behind her and shouts, “No, no, no!”

   Sherlock whipped around to find Mr Anderson upside down, reaching right at his face. He ducked and Anderson reached past him to his actual target - his door knob - and pulls it shut.

   The Russian giant, dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, pulled a raw beet from his pocket. He was not happy – even Sherlock knew that. “Famous Jumping Mouse Circus not ready, little girl!” He yelled.

   “I’m a boy,” Sherlock corrected, but his mind dwelled on the word circus, “Oh, I brought this for you.” He held out the letters and Anderson takes them, smelling the stinky envelopes deeply and nodded approvingly.

   “Mm... Noviseer.”

   “Excuse me?” Sherlock asked.

   “New "cheese" samples,” Anderson informed; then swung down like a spider monkey and stood beside him on the balcony. Sherlock backed away. “Very clever, using this "mix up" to sneak my home and peek at meeshkas.”

   “Meeshkas?” Sherlock questioned. He knew it was Russian, but he’d deleted most of his Russian vocabulary

   “The Mice!” Anderson shouted.

   “Oh, sorry. I'm Sherlock Holmes,” He informed, trying to appear social.

   Anderson bowed, “And I am the Amazing Anderson! But you can call me Mr. A, because amazing I already know that I am.”

   _‘Whatever you say…’_ Sherlock thought to himself.

   Anderson smelled his letters again, made pleased sound, and then seemed to fall off the side of the third story porch! Sherlock rushed over, and looked down. Anderson cartwheeled in from the porch railing behind her.

   “Ha!” Sherlock jumped at hearing the Russian’s voice, “You see, Sheldon, the problem is my new songs go oompah oompah. But the jumping mice play only toodle toot, like that. Is nice, but not so much amazing? So now –” He indicated the disgusting cheese, “I switch to stronger cheese, and soon – _Vatch out_!” He opened his door, crouched low and turned. He handed him a beet, “Here, have beet. Make you strong,” He salutes him, “Daas vee DAAN ya, Sheldon.” He scuttled inside and slammed the door shut.

   “Sher-lock,” Sherlock muttered. Looking at the beet, he made a disgusted sound and tossed it away, then headed down the stairs.

   When he got to the bottom, he started towards the back, specimen bags out. “Oompah oompah, toodle toot, toodle toot,” Sherlock tunefully whispered to himself.

   “Eh! Sheldon: Pa-Dazh-Di' – Wait!!” Anderson yelled from above.

   Sherlock looked up. “No!!!”

   Anderson leaped all the way to the ground, landing beside him, out of breath. “The mice...asked me to give you message.”

   “The… jumping mice?” Sherlock inquired.

   Mr. A nodded gravely. He leaned down and whispered, his voice deadly-serious, “They are saying: do not go through little door. Do you know such a thing?”

   Sherlock was startled. First of all, that _mice_ had given this man a massage and, secondly, that they knew about the door. Whatever was going on was _not_ boring. “The one behind the wall paper? But… it's all bricked up.”

   Anderson shrugged and straightened. “Bah. So sorry, is nothing. Sometimes the mice are little…” He pointed to his head and rotated his finger, “Mixed up, hmmm? They even get your name wrong, you know. They call you Sherlock instead of Sheldon, not Sheldon at all.” He started back up the stairs, “Maybe I work them too hard…”

   Sherlock stared after him.

~*~

   Sherlock climbed down the steps to the basement flat. At the door, he tried the comedy/tragedy door knocker and waited. Nothing. He glanced down at the doormat – it read "No whistling in the house." He peered through the door glass.

   A yapping dog suddenly leaped up inside, startling him, and a moment after, Miss Hooper – wearing some sort of house robe – opened the door and three Scottie dogs shot out and surrounded Sherlock. Miss Hooper tried to quiet them down, “Oh cease your infernal yapping!” She turned to Sherlock and smiled sweetly – but not wrong, like The Other Brother the night before, “How nice to see you, Sheldon. Would you like to come in? We're playing cards.”

   “Still Sherlock, Miss Hooper,” Sherlock laughed slightly, following her into the house.

   “Irene, put the kettle on!” Miss Hooper called to her lady friend. She led Sherlock into the living area, as Miss Adler, taller than Miss Hooper and sporting a platinum wig, prepared tea in the kitchen to the side. The dogs raced ahead and jumped onto the sofa. Sherlock scanned the walls to see framed posters from the "Shakespeare" the ladies used to perform years ago; like King Leer, and Julius Seize Her. Miss Adler peered out, half-blind without her glasses.

   “Molly, I think you're being followed,” She commented haughtily.

   “It's the new neighbour, Irene - Sheldon? He'll be having the Oolong tea,” Molly informed.

   “No, no, no, no. I'm sure he'd prefer Jasmine,” Irene smiled.

   “No, Oolong,” Molly argued.

   “Ah, Jasmine it is, then,” Irene said as she grabbed a handful of tea, put it in the pot and poured boiling water in.

   “Come on, boys!” Molly scolded the dogs lightly. They leapt off the sofa and, as Sherlock took his place, he looked to the side and saw a towering bookcase filled with stuffed scotty dogs in knitted jumpers with angel wings.

   “Are those dogs… real?” Sherlock asked.

   Molly sighed, “Our sweet, departed angels. Couldn't bear to part with them ... so we had them stuffed,” She started to point out different dogs, “Now, there's Hamish the third, the fourth, the eighth, the ninth. Angus the second, the fifth, the…”

   Irene arrived with a tea tray and urged Sherlock to take a sweet as Molly babbled, “Oh go on, have one it's hand-pulled taffy from Brighton best in the world. And you look like you could do with some sweets…”

   Sherlock reached for a pink and green one. But the taffy was so old and sticky, his fingers got stuck. Then his other hand got stuck, trying to get the first hand out.

   Molly continued, not noticing that no one was listening, “...seventh, the third, the ninth, yes, the fourth, I'm right; and Jock Junior, Jock senior, Jock the third, the fourth...”

   Sherlock, using his feet, finally un-stuck the sweet bowl; which flew up and stuck to the ceiling.

   “...oh, and that's Jock's 2nd cousin, twice removed.” Molly turned to Sherlock, about to sip his tea. Molly indicated the cup, “I'll read them, if you like.”

   “Read what?” Sherlock asked.

   “Oh, your tea leaves, dear. They'll tell me your future. Drink up then, go on,” Sherlock gulped down the bitter brew. “No, not all of it, not all of it. That's right, now hand it over.”

   Sherlock passed her the cup. Molly put a saucer on top and swirled it three times, removed the saucer and peered in at the abstract leaf pattern. She pursed her lips. “Oh... Sheldon, Sheldon, Sheldon; you are in terrible danger.”

   Irene snorted, “Oh, give me that cup, Molly, your eyes are going.”

   “My eyes! You're blind as a bat!” Molly passed the cup to Irene, who adjusted her thick glasses and peered closely into it.

   “Oh, now… not to worry, child, it's _good_ news: there's a tall, handsome beast in your future,” Irene smiled with one corner of her ruby mouth.

   “A what?” Sherlock asked, voice dipping an octave.

   “Irene, oh really, you're holding it wrong,” Molly forcibly rotated the cup, “See? Danger!”

   Sherlock wants more information. “What do you see?”

   The ladies, heads side by side, gazed into the cup. “I see a very peculiar hand...” Molly informed ominously.

   Irene rotates the cup back again. “I see a giraffe.”

   “Giraffes don't just fall from the sky, Irene.” The stuck sweet dish suddenly crashed to the floor. “Oh!”

   “Oh, lord!” Irene gasped.

   “Well, what should I do?” Sherlock asked.

   “Never wear green in your dressing room,” Molly advised.

   “Acquire a very tall step ladder,” Irene said with a quirk of her eyebrows.

   “And be very, very careful. Now, was there something you came to tell us?” Molly asked airily, as if they hadn’t been talking about doom a few moments before.

   Sherlock thought it over, then shook his head. “No, I suppose not. Thank you for the tea, though.” He got up and left, the dogs immediately returned to their sofa.

   “Toodle-oo,”  Irene bid.

   “Cheery-bye,” Molly smiled.

   Sherlock climbed the stairs up to ground level, intrigued by his fortune. “Danger?” Sherlock muttered to himself.

   Behind him, a periscope rose from the waist-deep fog. Sherlock just caught it in his peripheral view.

   He rolled his eyes but didn't let on he was aware of it. He walked ahead nonchalantly, the periscope following him, then suddenly turned and grabbed it, pulling up John, then punched him in the arm.

   “Ouch!” John exclaimed.

   “Great, the village stalker,” Sherlock huffed.

   “I-I wasn't stalking you,” John stuttered, “We're hunting banana slugs.” John took some salad tongs from a tool belt and snapped them.

   “What do you mean, ‘we’?” Sherlock asked. There was a soft grumble from under John’s coat. He opened it up and the red dog emerged and climbed onto his shoulders like a cat. “Ha! Your dog's not wild, he's a runt-mutt.” The dog glared at him angrily.

   “What? He hates to get his feet wet,” John shrugged.

   “Runt-mutt,” Sherlock mocked. Tired of her company, the dog jumped off John, onto a tree and up onto the roof of the house.

   Sherlock softened, “So… that doll. Did you make it look like me?”

   John, who was scanning under the ground fog for slugs, stuck his head up for a moment. “Oh no; I found it that way. It's older than Auntie – old as this house probably.”

   Sherlock was highly sceptical. John returned to his hunt. “Come on – navy hair, my coat?”

   John stood excitedly and presents a huge yellow-green slug to Sherlock. “Look! Slugzilla!”

   On any other day, Sherlock would have said it was interesting; but he was not impressed.

   “You're just like them,” Sherlock commented, frustrated.

   “Huh?” John looked from the slug to himself.

   “I meant my father and brother; they don't listen to me either,” Sherlock pouted, crossing his thin arms over his chest.

   John nodded, not listening again, and took his camera out of its case. “You mind?” He handed it to Sherlock. He acted bored, but framed a shot.

   John signalled he was ready and Sherlock fired off one auto-flash shot after another as he struck silly poses making sound effects: horrified of the slug one moment; ready to eat it the next; pretending it's something from his nose in another. Sherlock couldn't help but giggle. “Ew!” Sherlock laughed.

   Finished, John tossed the slug back into the fog, and took the camera back. He lowered his head, thoughtful, then glanced up past Sherlock at the house. He sighed and spoke in a sad tone. “You know, I've never been inside the Baker Palace.”

   “You're kidding,” Sherlock was sceptical.

   “Auntie would kill me. Thinks it's dangerous or something…”

   “Dangerous?” Sherlock asked, his nerves were on edge. First the warning from Mr Anderson’s mice, then Molly and Irene, now John.

   “Well... she had another sister, a twin sister…” John began.

   “So?”

   “When they were kids, Auntie's sister disappeared. She says she was stolen.”

   “Stolen?” Sherlock tried desperately not to believe it. “Well, what do you think?”

   “Uh, I-I don't know…” John stuttered, climbing onto his bike and whistles, “Come on, Redbeard!” The red dog jumped down from the roof, onto his shoulders. “Maybe she just ran away?”

   “John!” Mrs Hudson called in the distance. John turned away: he had said too much.

   “Look, I’ve got to go…” He started to pull away.

   “Wait a minute!” Sherlock called, but John sped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I'm loving this!


	5. Other John and Anderson's Jumping Mice

   Sherlock took some yellow cheese from his pocket and put it by the door to his and Mycroft’s room: mice bait. Mycroft was asleep in the lab, so he wouldn’t get caught.

   He lay down and his breathing slowed; the doll watching him with a nearly imperceptible smile on its face.

~*~

   Sherlock was sleeping before he heard the same t-t-t-t-t-t he had the night before. Sherlock sat up, looked to the door, and spots a couple of mice stealing the last bit of cheese.

   He gave chase after the mice, hopping down the stairs with the cheese.

   Sherlock followed the mice directly to the little door, opened a crack, where they disappear.

   He pulled it open. Bricks are gone; tunnel revealed. He didn't hesitate this time to crawl through the door.

~*~

   Sherlock pirouetted into the Other Kitchen to find Other Brother setting up an old iPod on a dock. He placed a foot, with a soft, black ballet shoe, on the counter and stretched. He looked thinner than the other Mycroft and was wearing a black t-shirt and leggings. His hair was neater than Mycroft’s had been in a long time, not brushed hurriedly with slightly curled ginger locks falling out of place.

   He noticed Sherlock. “Welcome back, darling brother.”

   “Hi,” Sherlock said shyly.

   “Would you go fetch your father?” He beamed at Sherlock, “He should have finished scavenging by now… I thought I’d be nice to have a dance, since you love dancing so much. Today’s a not-eating day, isn’t it?”

   “You mean my Other Father?” Sherlock asked.

   “Your better father, brother dear. He's out in the woods.”

   “But Mycroft and father don't have time to scavenge…”

   Other Brother shushed him and began to play one of Sherlock’s violin compositions on the iPod. “How did you…?”

   “Go on...” Mycroft smiled, ushering Sherlock out of the door. Sherlock shrugged happily, and headed towards the door.

~*~

   Sherlock opened the gate to the garden. A large crescent moon rose, and the barren plants started to glow. Bioluminescence?

   Sherlock spotted the Other Father, riding a… Praying Mantis tractor(?) on the hillside, scouting for dead animals. “Hey!” the Other Father called and steered towards Sherlock. He scooped Sherlock up in his arms and put him on the Praying Mantis’ back. “I managed to find a Lepus Bluebell!” He smiled, removing a sniffing, inquisitive, and _glowing_ rabbit from a bag.

   “Wow!” Sherlock beamed. “Well, _he_ says we’re going to have a dance lesson.”

   His father’s face lit up with joy – Sherlock thought he’d never see that expression again.

~*~

   “Sherlock,” The Other Brother began as Sherlock and the Other Father walked into the kitchen, “Mr. Anderson has invited you to come see the Jumping Mice perform, if you want…”

   “Really? That idiot trying to be a know-it-all John said it was all in Mr. A's head, I knew he was wrong!” Sherlock grinned triumphantly.

   “Well, everything's right in this world, Sherly,” The Other Father smiled.

   “Your father and I will clean up while you and your friend head upstairs,” The Other Brother beamed.

   “My friend?” Sherlock questioned.

   There was a knock at the door. Other Brother opens it to reveal the Other John – blue buttons for eyes; the contrast was extraordinary. He was cleaner, with better posture, and his button eyes were actually quite cute. “Great… Another John. Hello.” Other John nodded, button eyes shining. “Hello?” He just made a shy smile, and didn't answer. Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

   “I thought you'd like him more, if he spoke a little less,” The Other Brother shrugged, smiling as ‘sweetly’ as ever, “So I fixed him.”

   “So he can't talk at all?” Sherlock asked.

   “Nope,” The Other Brother confirmed.

   Sherlock looked Other John over appreciatively, “Hmm, I like it.”

   “Now run along, you two, and have fun,” The Other Brother wished proudly.

   Sherlock headed out the door with the mute boy.

~*~

   Sherlock and John came out the front door. “You're awfully cheerful, considering you can't say anything,” Sherlock commented. There seemed to be a permanent smile on Other John’s lips – but it was a nice smile; not slightly unnerving, like Other Brother’s.

   Other John nodded in agreement. Sherlock and he started to climb up the stairs to Anderson's.

   “It didn't hurt, did it, when he…” he points to his mouth. There was an awkward moment and then John pointed past him, excitedly: a small blimp was flying towards Anderson's door.

   They ran up the stairs and watched it slip through an opening above his door. Sherlock knocked on the cheap wood and the door suddenly spun on its axis, throwing the two teenagers inside.

   They somersaulted to a stop and sat up. Down two rows of small cannons that face eachother, an amazing miniature circus had been set up, with a Ferris wheel beside it. “Cool!” Sherlock exclaimed. He went right to the Ferris wheel where a mechanical chicken ate dried corn on the cob, fired up its belly, and then popcorn came out from an opening underneath its tale into paper bags.

   Other John stomped on a firing button and cotton candy shot out of a cannon. He caught the cone, then started firing off all the cannons.

   Sherlock looked back to find him covered in the cotton candy. “Look at you!” The navy haired boy laughed.

   Spotlights came on in the big top, the entrance opened, and the big voice of Mr Anderson broadcast over loudspeakers.

   “Gentlemen! For to tickle your eyes and ears and making hearts to thump, I -­ Sergei Phillip Anderson -­ am introducing…” The boys raced to the entrance and stooped down to crawl inside, “My as-tound-ishing, stu-pen-dulous and _amazing_ Jumping Mouse Circus!”

   It was like the TARDIS in Doctor Who! The tent was so much bigger on the inside that the outside. Sherlock was vaguely alarmed that he was beginning to simply accept the impossibilities that surrounded him in this reality… Or maybe he just watched too much Doctor Who, not that he’d stop.

   The boys sat between miniature grandstands and watched as the little blimp, bathed in spotlights, entered through a flap. It circled around, rising to the top of the tent, then nose-dived towards the ground. It crashed in the center of the circus ring, and opened like a flower from which 50 jumping mice sprang up like Chinese acrobats to spell out S H E R L O C K.

   “My name!” Sherlock beamed, delighted.

   The jumping mice leaped to the ground in formation, brandishing tiny instruments, and the drummer mice started pounding.

   The drum major mouse parachuted down and whipped out a baton; on his signal, the group launched into a wild Russian circus march.

   Sherlock, grinning, turned to the Other John. “It's wonderful, John!”

   The blonde smiled and nodded to the beat of the base drums as the hopping band marched in and out of ever changing formations - pinwheels, x's, circles within circles.

   The mice began to spiral to the center of the circus ring when the floor rose up from its center to form a six-foot Tower of Babel, the mice hopping to the top. The drum major balanced on top, on a colourful circus ball.

   “Wow!” Sherlock gasped.

   The mouse ran the ball down and around the spiral as the other mice hopped off, and when he hit the ground, the tower dropped away to reveal the Other Mr Anderson. He cracked a whip.

   Sherlock and Other John stood and clapped. Other Anderson ­ in a ringmaster’s outfit with a full length cape ­ bowed graciously, doffing his tall black hat. His moustache was waxed, his eyes black buttons.

   “Yah! Whooo-oooh! That was great!” Sherlock cheered.

   “Very very thank you, gentleman,” Anderson thanked. On cue, the entire jumping mice band disappeared into Other Mr A's sleeves while the drum major swung up from the man's moustache and onto his head, where he was quickly hidden by the tall black hat.

   “We loved it, Mr. A. It was… so… so –” Sherlock began, trying to find the right word.

   “Ahhh –” Anderson coached.

   “Amazing!” Sherlock exclaimed.

   “You are very velcome anytime you like,” Other Anderson smiled, “You and also your good friend there.” Sherlock happily turned to Other John, beaming with joy. “Dosvedanya, Sherlock,” Anderson took her hand to kiss it.

~*~

   Other Brother kissed sleeping Sherlock’s forehead, sitting back in the bedside chair. Other Father, close by, pulled a cotton candy cone off Other John and munched it.

   Sherlock's Other Brother smiled warmly, knowing something secret that made him glad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one didn't want to come. Oh well, it did. Please review!


	6. Scarf

   The brakes squealed as Mycroft pulled up in front of the science institute in the old Rolls-Royce. Townsfolk in Shakespearian costumes stood about, advertising a local festival.

   Sherlock was sharing his latest dream: “... and there were rabbits that were bioluminescent called Bluebell rabbits!” Sherlock continued from the back seat as his father and brother review the notes from the experiments. “Oh, and upstairs I saw a real mouse circus, not pretend like the crazy man's in our house.

   His father and brother, preoccupied, ignored him. “Are you sure you won't come?” Siger asked Mycroft.

   “Don't fret, father, the results are very promising,” Mycroft stated. Their father opened door. Mycroft looked back at Sherlock, “I did not call him crazy, Sherlock. He's drunk.”

   Siger leaned in through Sherlock’s window, “Well, I guess I'll see you around, you,” He pinched Sherlock’s nose, “Dizzy dreamer.”

   “Sherlock cut him off, embarrassed, “Father! I'm not five anymore.”

   Siger sighed and headed up the steps to his appointment as Mycroft and Sherlock drove away.

~*~

   The uniform shop in the small town a few miles away was dull and grey. Mycroft piled grey shirts, black trousers and white socks onto the arms of a clerk.

   Sitting alone on some stairs, Sherlock saw a blue cashmere scarf arranged on a small wooden table. He picked it up and ran the material through his fingers – it was soft. He wrapped it around his neck.

   As he tried them on, some young boy in costume with sword bounced past him, down the stairs, on a wheeled step stool - his father in pursuit. “My kingdom for a horse!!!!” He declared before he crashed. Idiot. The step stool rolled back to Sherlock. He got an idea.

   Mycroft was checking out school shirts, when Sherlock rolled past, first one direction, then the other, modelling the scarf. Without looking up, Mycroft said, “Put it back.”

   “But Mycroft, the whole school's going to wear boring grey clothes. No one will have this,” Sherlock argued.

   “Put it back, idiot,” Mycroft confirmed

   “My other brother would get it, and he wouldn’t call me an idiot either,” Sherlock pouted.

   “Maybe he should buy all your clothes,” Mycroft retoirted.

   Sherlock scowled and stomped away to return the scarf.

~*~

   Sherlock and Mycroft were driving home, shopping bags in the back seat.

 

   “So what do you think's in the other apartment?” Sherlock asked

   “I don't know. Not a family of Holmes imposters,” Mycroft humoured.

   “Then why did you lock the door?” Sherlock interrogated.

   “Oh, I found some rat faeces and… I thought you'd feel… safer,” Mycroft admitted.

   Sherlock glared at his brother. “They're jumping-mice, Mycroft! And the dreams aren't dangerous; they're the most fun I've had since we've moved here.

   “Do you know how insane you sound? And your school might be fun,” Mycroft attempted.

   “With those stupid uniforms?” Sherlock almost squeaked.

   “Can’t say I didn’t try,” Mycroft smiled smugly as they pulled into their driveway.

~*~

   Mycroft was analysing the contents of the fridge, trying to find something decent for lunch. He pulled out salsa, mustard, catsup, stale tortillas from the fridge.

   “How do you feel about a mustard-ketchup-salsa wrap for lunch?” He asked Sherlock as the navy haired boy carried in the bags from outside.

   Sherlock made a face, “Are you joking?”

   “Mm... I had to go food shopping anyway. Father's planning something special,” Mycroft shuddered mockingly.

   Sherlock screwed up his face, “Disgusting!”

   Mycroft brightened for a moment or two, like he used to; only he had bags and dark circles under his eyes, his hair was untamed and suit wrinkled, “Do you want to come? You can pick out something you like…”

   Sherlock collapsed into a chair, “Oh, like the scarf?”

   Mycroft reached out and mussed Sherlock's hair, but he pulled away. “Look, Sherlock... if things go well today, for father, I promise I'll make it up.”

   “That's what you always say. I don’t want food anyway,” Sherlock muttered.

   “Brother mine, please tell me why you are starving yourself,” Mycroft requested sincerely.

   “My Other Brother doesn’t mind…” Sherlock muttered. Mycroft could see he wasn’t going to get an answer.

   He sighed, shaking his head, and opened the door to leave. “Then he’s a bad brother… Won’t be long.” He closed the door.

   “But I might be...” Sherlock whispered with a smile on his face. He pulled open the key drawer, looking for the small black key. It wasn’t there. He looked around the room and spotted it hanging on a hook above a door.

   He dragged a chair over, stood on it and snagged the key.

~*~

   Sherlock stooped in front of the small door, pushed the key into the keyhole and unlocked the door.

   He listened for the Rolls-Royce. Nothing.

   Grasping the key between thumb and forefinger, he closed his eyes and pulled the door open.

   He could feel a soft breeze move his hair and cool his face. He knew before his eyes opened that the bricks were gone. “I knew it was real!” he exclaimed, triumphant. Sherlock opened his eyes, smiled, and crawled forward, through the door.

   Redbeard perched on the wet window sill, observing Sherlock as he disappeared into the tunnel with a look of concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Please review. I'm having so much fun with this.


	7. Go to sleep...

   When Sherlock entered the Other Kitchen, there was no sign of Other Brother or Other Father. Only a gift-wrapped box with an attached note: ‘Dearest Sherlock, Miss Hooper and Miss Adler have invited you downstairs. I hope you like the new outfit I made you! Love, Brother yours. P.S. You don’t need to have lunch if you don’t want. :)’

   Sherlock tore open the box and found a beautiful black, tailored suit, shining, silver glittery shoes and a fitted purple shirt.

   She held up the shirt to his body, smiled, then went to put them on.

~*~

  Sherlock, dressed in his beautiful new clothes, stepped onto the wooden deck. It seemed to always be night time in this world.

   A dog barked. Sherlock looks up to see Redbeard on the deck roof above him. He raised his eyebrows and studied the animal a moment. It acted more like a cat than a dog.

   “Hm... John's got a dog like you at home,” He began, “Not the quiet John; the one that talks too much. You must be the Other Dog.”

   The dog leapt down and landed on the railing by the basement stairs. He shook his head and _spoke_ , “No. I'm not the other anything. I'm me.” He tipped his head to one side, blue eyes glinting.

   Sherlock was startled. “I can see you don't have button eyes. But if you're the same dog… How can you talk?!”

   “I just can.” He leapt smoothly from the railing and onto a large, fallen tree.

   “Dogs don't talk at home,” Sherlock stated.

   “No?”

   “Nope,” Sherlock confirmed.

   Redbeard climbed up the tree's upended roots, head held high and proud.

   “Well, you're clearly the expert on these things,” He remarked dryly, “After all, I'm just a big fat runt-mutt!” Redbeard turned to leave.

   “Come back. Please? I… I'm sorry I called you that, I really am,” Sherlock forced himself to be polite. “How did you get here?”

   “I've been coming here for a while,” He disappeared behind one a thick root, then reappeared from a large knot hole beside Sherlock, startling him even more. “It's a game we play. He…” Redbeard indicated the house, “hates dogs and tries to keep me out. But he can't, of course.” He poked his head down into the knot hole, then popped it up out of another knot-hole, ten feet away. “I come and go as I please.”

   “The Other Brother hates dogs?” Sherlock asked sceptically. Mycroft preferred cats, like he did, but he still had a fondness for dogs.

   “Not like any ‘brother’ I've ever known,” he stated contemptuously.

   “What do you mean? He's amazing!” Sherlock exclaimed.

   Redbeard climbed the tree's branches onto the roof. “You probably think this world is a dream come true. But you're wrong. The Other John told me so.”

   “That's nonsense. He can't talk!”

   The dog looked at him, as if pitying his lack of intelligence, Sherlock did _not_ appreciate it. “Perhaps not to you. We dogs, however, have far superior senses than humans and can see and smell, and –” Suddenly, Redbeard dropped into a crouch and froze, sensing something. “Shhhh! I hear something! Right… over…” He scrambled across the roof and disappeared around the corner.

   Sherlock shrugged, sceptical, and heads down to Molly and Irene's, their door now circled with chaser lights.

~*~

   She pushes past elegant velvet curtains in the apartment to discover an enormous, darkened theatre with dim rows of seats and a high wooden stage.

   A torch comes towards her, carried by a black Scottie dog with button eyes. He looked up at Sherlock, sniffed, then led him down the aisle past rows and rows of button-eyed dogs, to a front seat by the Other John. He squeezed Other John’s arm to say hello and the blue-button-eyed blonde looked back warmly. “Hey, John.”

   Light flashed, the audience quieted, then the curtains opened on a seaside setting with rotating waves. Other Molly rose up on stage left, in a mermaid suit and large wig with button eyes. It struck Sherlock how Other John was the only one with coloured buttons. “She's practically naked,” Sherlock stage whispered to Other John, shocked.

   Other Molly began to sing, “I'm known as the siren of all seven seas. The breaker of hearts by the bay,” A flat cut-out ship manned by cut-out men rowed in behind her, “So, if you go swimming. With bow-legged women. I might steal your weak heart away.”

   She bowed her head and the audience of dogs thumped their tails.

   Molly was lowered through the stage floor, the scenery changed, and on the right, a huge scallop shell rose up with the Other Irene, clad in the bare minimum – her homage to Botticelli's birth of Venus. She  was facing the wrong way.

   “Oh… my… God,” Sherlock gaped, Other John patted his arm comfortingly.

   A dog howled, alerting the near-blind lady, who turned to the audience and began the next verse. “A big-bottomed sea witch may bob through the waves. And hope to lead sailors astray. But a true ocean goddess. Must fill out her bodice,” She indicated her ample bosom, “To present an alluring display.”

   The dogs thumped and barked, Other John and Sherlock clap.

   Molly, furious at the greater reaction, got back in the competition. Rising up, she made it clear just who she was insulting. “Beware of old oysters. Too large in the chest. Let's banish them from the buffet.” But Irene was up to the challenge - the scenery started to change faster and faster as the ladies rose up and down, competing. “I'm far more nutritious.”

   “You smell like the fishes!”

   “Did I hear a banshee?”

   “You're sea-green with envy!”

   “This mermaid enchantress –”

   “No, I ‘Birth of Venus’!” The set rigging couldn't take it anymore – ropes snapped, sandbags swung and the scenery started to fall. “Will send sailors swooning --oh--!”

   “Will send sailors swooning --oh--!”

   With a crash, the old ladies tumble down in a pile. John and Sherlock winced. The audience howled with laughter as the curtains closed on the disaster.

   A drum roll played and a Scottie dog pushed a large bucket of water, labelled ‘POOL’, onto center stage. The spotlights tilted up to the top of very tall diving platforms, where the old ladies now stood. Sherlock couldn't stand it. “I can't look!” He whispered to Other John.

   “Ready to break a leg, Irene?!” Molly asked.

   “Our lives for the theatre, Molly!” Irene announced. They began to bounce on the diving boards.

   As they bounced up, the two troupers unzipped their fat suit disguises; from which, emerged their younger beautiful selves which leapt to catch matching trapeze bars that swung into place.

   Sherlock laughed with relief and amazement, Other John looked pleased. Dogs barked, music begins and the two beauties – eyes bright buttons, sexy bathing suits striped pink and green ­ swung out over the stage. The only real difference between them was that Irene was bustier and Molly would have had a boyish frame if it hadn’t been nipped in with a corset to create more curves.

   “What a piece of work is man!” Irene began, “How noble in reason!”

   They flew past each other on their trapezes, doubled up, and caught one another hand to ankle. Sherlock noticed a large pearl ring on Irene's finger, but thought nothing of it.

   “How infinite in faculty!” Molly continued on from Irene, “In form and moving how express and admirable!”

   In a sudden change of direction, they swung out over the audience, trapeze bar lowering and pulled Sherlock into the air. He yelled, terrified.

   They expertly tossed him one to the other, flipping and spinning, as they continued their lines. His screams became cries of exhilaration.

   “In action like an angel!” Irene sighed serenely.

   “In apprehension how like a god!” Molly announced.

   “Ahhh!!!” Sherlock screamed.

   “The beauty of the world!” Irene smiled.

   “The paragon of animals!” Molly laughed slightly as Sherlock swung face-to-face to the dogs in the royal box seats, and one licked him.

   “Yeah!!” Sherlock yelled. There was no other feeling like this.

   The acrobats tossed Sherlock up into the air and Jack-Knife dived into the large bucket below.

   They rose up, unhurt, just in time to catch Sherlock in one of Molly’s hands. He wobbled slightly but steadied himself easily. The three bowed to thunderous thumping applause and Other John threw Sherlock a rose!

~*~

   Other John escorted Sherlock up the stone stairs from Molly and Irene's apartment. The Other Brother and Other Father, a full moon rising behind them, wait at the top of the stairs.

   “Hello there,” Other Father greeted.

   “Was it wonderful, brother dear?” Other Brother asked with the unnatural smile sewn across his lips. His hair and suit looked absolutely perfect and Other Father dressed in a dapper suit. Sherlock shook with excitement as they walked toward the front porch. Other John held back and lost his smile.

   “Oh yes! They swooped down and pulled me right out of my seat – Molly and Irene. Only they weren't old ladies; that was just a disguise! But then, I was flying through the air and it was… it was magic!” They – apart from Other John – walked up the front steps.

   “You do like it here, don't you, Sherlock?” Other Brother asked – voice soft and sweet.

   Sherlock nodded and turned back, “Good night, John!”

   Other Father took Sherlock inside. Other John, at the bottom of the steps, looked guilty and sad. Other Brother glared at him, smile finally disappearing, before he made a huge, even more false smile then pointed to his mouth. John just lowered his head.

~*~

   “You could stay here forever… if you want to,” Mycroft smiled as they walked through the hallway.

   “Really?” Sherlock asked, amazed.

   “Of course! We'll dance and play instruments, and you can eat – or not eat – whenever you want,” Other Father assured.

   Other Brother rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “There's one tiny little thing we need to do…”

   “What's that?” Sherlock inquired.

   “Well, it's a surprise,” Other Father beamed.

They walked into the Other Kitchen. Sherlock and Other Father sat in their places while Other Brother placed a small box with a bow in front of Sherlock, and takes his own seat. Sherlock excitedly removed the lid. “For you… our little doll,” Other Brother beamed.

   The ‘surprise’ was a spool of black thread, a silver needle, and a pair of shiny black buttons _for his eyes_!

   Sherlock gasped. He looked up at his Other Brother and Other Father, hoping that it was a bad joke.

   Other Brother smiled even more, “Black is traditional, but if you'd prefer purple or vermillion or chartreuse or rainbow…” Sherlock saw their button eyes changing colours, he  was growing ever more panicked. “Though you might make me jealous…”

   “ _No way_!” Sherlock screamed. He batted the box away, and his hands flew to his face, covering his eyes. “You’re not sewing buttons into my eyes!”

   “Oh, but we need a yes ... if you want to stay here,” Other Brother tempted.

   Other Father tested the needle on his finger. “So sharp you won't feel a thi-- Oww!” Other Brother kicked him under the table. Embarrassed, he put the needle back in the box.

   “It's your decision, darling brother. We only want what's best for you…” He walked over and put her hand, now ice cold, on Sherlock's shoulder.

   Sherlock pushed it away and stood up. “I'm… I'm going to bed! _Right now_!”

   “Bed?” Other Brother asked, smiled dropping, wounded.

   Sherlock fought to control his quaking voice, “I'm really, really tired,” He faked huge yawn, “I just need to sleep on things.”

   Other Brother stood, masking his disappointment. “Well of course you do, darling brother… I'll be happy to tuck you in –”

   Sherlock backed away, urging them to stay where they were. “Oh, no thanks,” Sherlock forced a smile, “You-you've done so much already –”

   Sherlock turned to leave and saw the Other Brother blocking the doorway. Other Father joined him. “You're welcome. And I – we aren't worried at all, darling brother,” Other Brother’s voice softened, “Soon you'll see things our way.”

   He let go. He and the Other Father herded Sherlock across the hallway to the stairs.

   Sherlock carefully climbed the stairs, Other Brother and Other Father watching him. When they could no longer see him, he raced up the last steps and dashed to the Other Bedroom.

   He shut the door and was quickly surrounded by fluttering bees, “What's wrong, Sherlock? Don't you want to play?” They chorused. Sherlock finally realised how terrifying it was.

   He jumped up and caught the paper creatures, opened the toy chest and tossed them in.

   The plush blue squid greeted her from the shelf, “Yeah, I wanna hugga your face!”

   Followed by the toy tank giraffe, “Get a grip, soldier.”

   He grabbed them both and dropped them in the toy chest.

   Photo Greg – button eyes turned completely black – called out from the photo by Mycroft’s bed. “Hey! Where's your buttons, sunshine?  You want to stay, don't you?”

   Sherlock grabbed him as well, dropped them in the chest, and shut the lid. He barricaded the door with a wardrobe and chairs and then the toy chest. “I'm going home tonight, robots - and I won't. Be. Back!”

   He sat on the bed, pulled off the glittery shoes then climbed under the covers, pulling them over his head and holding tight. She hugged himself to stop shaking, willing away the panic attack, knowing he had to fall asleep in this bed to wake up in his real bed at home.

   He closes his eyes and told himself: “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep!” He tossed one way, then another. “Go to sleep, go to sleep…”

   He could hear strange, backwards sounds in his mind, then the eerie voices of Other Brother and Other Father. “There's just one tiny little thing we have to do.” Other Brother echoed in his head.

   “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep…”

   “So sharp you won't feel a thing…”

   “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep…”

   “Soon you'll see things our way...”

   Sherlock fidgeted and turned and turned again but sleep finally wrapped him and took him to oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just want to hug Sherlock and Other John? Please review.


	8. Moriarty

   Sherlock was beneath the covers, when he was woken by the light seeping through the fabric. With a hopeful look, he called out, pulling back the covers, “Mycroft…! Father…!”

   His smile turned to shock – there was a bright, full moon in his window and it was _still_ night time in the Other World. “Oh God, I'm still here!”

~*~

   Sherlock raced downstairs to the Other Living Room where the little door home must have been…

   But the living room was locked tight! He pulled at the handles, planted a foot and tried with all his might, but it was no use. He stops, panting, then heard a cello note being plucked over and over.

~*~

   Sherlock opened the door to the Other Lab and found Other Father sitting with the cello, his back to him, plucking the note. Sherlock spoke in his bravest voice. “Hey, you! Where's the Other Brother? I want to go home!”

   The Other Father turned around. He looked ill; his hair messed and his glasses askew, and even skinnier than Sherlock. He spoke, his voice slowed-down, “All will be well, soon as Brother's refreshed. His strength is our strength.”

   The white-gloved hands popped out from the cello. One covered his mouth, the other wagged a finger in his face.

   “Mustn't talk when Brother's not here…”

   “If you won't even talk to me, I'm going to find the Other John. He'll help me!” Sherlock turned to go.

   “No point. He pulled a long face…” He pulled down the corners of his mouth impossibly far, Sherlock startled back, “And Brother didn't like it.”

   The cello hands popped out again, aggressively shut his mouth and spun him away from Sherlock.

   Frightened, Sherlock ran to the door that led outside, and pulled it open.

~*~

   Sherlock ran out the back door, towards the Other Garden.

~*~

   He crossed the hillside trail, the Other House in the distance.

~*~

   He ran down the path to the Other Orchard.

~*~

   Sherlock ran past trees in the Other Orchard that are lush with green leaves and ripe red fruit. He was panting hard, and had to slow to a fast walk.

   The further he went, the less tree-like the fruit trees became.

   She heard Redbeard bark. Surprised, he looks down. “And what do you think you're doing?” The cat-like dog asked as he trotted along by Sherlock’s feet.

   Sherlock blinked, “Well, I'm getting out of here. That's what _I'm_ doing.” The sky started to brighten and the apple trees became wire-thin shapes of trees. “Something's wrong. Shouldn't the old well be here?”

   The remnants of the trees and the sky and the ground give way to a pale, empty nothingness. No ground or shadows. “Nothing out here…” Redbeard informed, “It's the empty part of this world. He only made what he knew would impress you.”

   “But why? Why does he want _me_?” Sherlock questioned as  they walked over the horizon.

   “He wants something to love… I think. Something that isn't him,” Redbeard looked thoughtful for a moment before continuing, “Or maybe… he'd just love something to eat.

   “Eat? That's ridiculous, brothers don't eat brothers!” Sherlock gulped around the growing lump in his throat.

   “I don't know. How do you taste?” Redbeard laughed minutely.

   A shape rose in front of them in the whiteness and became the beautiful Other House. Sherlock and Redbeard slowed, then the front yard and topiary, the sky, hills, white gravel drive and the poplar trees behind them fill in.

   “Huh? That doesn’t make sense! How can you walk away from something and still come back to it?” Sherlock exclaimed.

   Redbeard curled his tail into a question mark, and tipped his head to one side, “You know the answer; walk around the world.”

   “Very small world…” Sherlock shivered.

   Redbeard suddenly tensed, focusing on a shrub. “Hang on –”

   He bounded towards the shrub and chased out a cute jumping mouse in uniform, with a tiny trumpet. Before Sherlock could blink, he’d pinned it down.

   “Stop, he's one of the circus mice!”

   With a swift blow of its paw, Redbeard knocked the mouse into the air, and caught it in his mouth. He gave a quick, killing bite – Sherlock gasped – and the mouse transformed into a big dead rat. Sherlock was stunned. Redbeard dropped the rat on the ground, “I don't like rats at the best of times, but this one was sounding an alarm.” Redbeard picked the rat up and headed off.

   Slack-jawed, Sherlock spoke with admiration, “Good dog.” He looked to the house with a determined look.

   On the deck, he took out a heavy cane from the umbrella stand and hit it into his hand.

~*~

   Sherlock, standing in front of the living room doors, tested the cane in his hands, and peered down the hall for danger. It was dead quiet – no cello, no sounds of anything.

   He jammed the cane through the doors' handles, and pulled with all his might. One handle and lock break and the door swung open into the pitch black living room.

   The hall light cast a narrow path directly to the Other Little Door on the far wall, cracked open. He stepped into the room.

   A huge Armoire bug suddenly crab-stepped in his path, blocking the little door, and all around him things started to glow.

   The room had been transformed into an amazing bug museum, with all sorts of glowing, living specimens in place of the old furniture and furnishings. The radiators were now big caterpillars, the Nordic Track a serving bug.

   The Other Brother spoke out, startling Sherlock. “They say even the proudest –” The sofa, now a large bug, turned in place to reveal him sitting on it, “– spirit can be broken… with love.” He was all smiles, button eyes glinting like steel butchers knives, one hand held out in a ‘behold my handiwork’ gesture.

   A bug chair scooped up Sherlock and brought him to the Other Brother.

   The Other Brother took a sweet dish from the servant bug. “Of course, chocolate never hurts. Would you like one… Brother dear?” He extends a sweet dish filled living chocolate beetles. “They're Cocoa Beetles from Zanzibar.”

   Sherlock was disgusted. The Other Brother took back the dish and bit off the head of one, it’s insides stringing like melted mozzarella.

   “I want to be with my real brother and father. I want you to let me go!” Sherlock demanded.

   The Other Brother frowned, and swallowed. He spoke with a frightening steeliness in his voice, “Is that any way to talk to your brother?”

   Sherlock was mad, and feeling mad made him _brave_. “You aren't my brother.”

   The Other Brother straightened. His button eyes, now dead, stare into Sherlock's. “Apologize at once, Sherlock!”

   Sherlock stared right back, not blinking, “No.”

   “I'll give you to the count of three,” The Other Brother warned tensely, “One…” Then he stood up, frame becoming impossibly thin. “… two…” He grew even thinner, needle thin, and his dusty tan three-piece suit turned black, waistcoat disappearing, and his tie blackened and was pock-marked with white skulls, and his hair also became a shade of jet black. His voice transformed into an Irish accent, “… THREE!” This shadowed Other Brother grabbed Sherlock by his nose and dragged him to the hallway.

   Sherlock tried not to hyperventilate. “Ouch! What are you doing!” he yelled. The shadow of Other Brother pulled Sherlock down the hallway to the mirror at the end. Sherlock flailed at the Other Brother with his fists, “Ouch, that hurts!”

   Other Brother shoved Sherlock right through the mirror, as if it was water.

   Sherlock hit the concrete ground hard. The Other Brother, head thrust through the mirror, stared down at him angrily. “You may come out when you've learned to be a loving brother!” He pulled his head out and left Sherlock in darkness.

   Sherlock pounded on the mirror-door and kicked it with his glittery shoes. A sob welled up in his throat.

   And then, he heard a soft ghostly moan.

   He turned. He could just make out a sagging iron bed in the dark. When the voice speaks, there was a faint glow from beneath its stained cover.

   “Who's there?” Sherlock asked, frightened out of his wits.

   “Hush! And shush! For Moriarty might be listening!” A whisper told him.

   Sherlock stepped towards the bed, the faint glow from under the covers in sync with the words she heard.

   “You… you mean the Other Brother…?” Sherlock inquired. He gently pulled back the sheets. The dimly glowing ghosts of three children with button eyes, sit up: a sweet girl ghost, emotional; a tall girl ghost, Sherlock’s height; and a young boy ghost, very sad. “Who are you?”

   “Don't remember our names… But I remember my true mommy…” The boy replied wistfully. The boy, dressed in tattered shorts and a torn shirt, conjured up ghost flowers; but the strange-looking flowers withered and faded. He was so sad that Sherlock took his cold hand and squeezed it.

   “Why are you all here?” He asked, trying to keep his panic at bay.

   “Moriarty!” They all replied at once. The ghosts moved about in a dance macabre.

   “He spied on our lives, through the little doll's eyes,” The sweet girl ghost sighed.

   “And saw that we weren't happy,” The boy ghost continued.

   “So he lured us away with treasures and treats,” The tall girl ghost began.

   “And games to play,” The sweet girl added.

   “Gave all that we asked –” The boy shrugged.

   “Yet we still wanted more –” The sweet girl ghost moaned.

   “So we let him sew the buttons,” The tall girl ghost concluded.

   “He said that he loved us,” The boy almost cried.

   “But he locked us here and ate up our lives,” They chorused as they fell back into their bed and sunk down.

   Sherlock was stunned. He thought a little and then spoke, trying to steady his voice, “Well, he can't keep me in the dark forever; not if he wants to win my life. Beating him is my only chance.”

   The Sweet Girl asked in her sing-song way, “Perhaps, if you do win your escape, you could find our eyes?”

   “Has he taken those, too?” Sherlock asked.

   “Yes, mister. And hidden them,” The sweet ghost girl confirmed.

   “Find our eyes, sir, and our souls will be freed,” The ghost boy begged.

   “I-I'll try,” Sherlock stuttered.

   The ghosts pulse with hope. Sherlock sat down against the mirror door and bounced his head against it. He was not hopeless.

   Suddenly, hands reached through the mirror and pulled her out!

   Sherlock’s eyes were wild, as he tore at the hands that hold him. He grabbed one and flipped his masked attacker onto the ground. He pulls off his mask: it was the Other John, his mouth stitched into a painful, ear to ear smile that looked more like a grimace.

   “John…?” Sherlock panted, sitting him up. “Did he do this to you?” Sherlock unstitched John’s painfully-huge grin. “I hope that feels bet–”

   The Other John shushed him before he could continue, a hard look of determination on his face and placed finger to Sherlock’s lips, and points to the Other Living Room, its door unlocked and open. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him in after.

   It was dark in the room and the bug furniture was asleep. They ran to the big armoire bug that guarded the little door and shoved it out of the way.

   It crashed to the floor. And from upstairs, a voice called out. “Sherlock? Is that you?!” Irish. Moriarty.

   “Let's go!” Sherlock whispered to John urgently. He opened the little door and a cold wind blew from the dark passageway, now filled with spider webs and the shoes, coats, and hats of other kids who tried to escape.

   “Sherlock...!” Moriarty called. The tunnel moved at the sound of his voice.

   Sherlock took Other John's arm. “Come on. She'll hurt you again!”

   John shook his head no, then pulled off his glove to reveal a hand made of sawdust. He blew his fingers away.

   Expensive shoes clicked from the stairs; he was almost there! “Sherlock!? How dare you disobey your brother!?!”

   Other John shoved Sherlock into the tunnel and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this was a tense chapter to write! I want to bundle Other John - with his cute button eyes - into a hug! Please review.


	9. You're crazy!

   Hunched down, Sherlock moved as quickly as he could, tearing through the sticky cobwebs.

   “Sherlock!” Moriarty called after him.

   Strands of web brushed his face and stuck to his hair; he closed his eyes, hands out until he finally brushed the little door at the other end. He dived, tucked –

   - And rolled out onto the real living room floor. Sherlock slammed the door shut and turned the sharp little key ­ still in the keyhole ­ to lock it.

   He stood, covered in dust and cobwebs, and called out with joy and relief. “I'm home!”

   He ran and twirled quickly through the apartment, happily calling, “Anybody here? Hello, hello, hello! Real Father… Real Mycroft!

   Sherlock leapt into the kitchen. There were bags of groceries on the table, as if his brother had just come home, “Oh, Mycroft's shopping!”

   He pulled open a bag to peek and fruit flies shot out. The food was spoiled.

   “That's disgusting,” Sherlock groaned, puzzled.

   The doorbell rang and Sherlock ran excitedly to the door and flung it open. “I missed you two so much – you'll never –” But it was just John, the real John, “Oh, the John that talks…”

   John waved, face down, awkward. “Huh? Ha ha ha… yeah… Um, so you know tha-that old doll I gave you?” John asked, stuttering. Sherlock tensed with sharp breath.

   “Um… my Auntie's really angry, says it was her sister's – the one that… disappeared?”

   Sherlock read him like a book. “You stole that doll, didn't you?” He stated, monotonous, but was not amused in the slightest.

   John answered quickly, obviously guilty, “Well, i-it looked just like you. And I _thought_ –”

   Sherlock, rushing the words, told him the truth. “It used to look like this Victorian boy; then a Forties girl; then it was this girl from the eighties with back-combed hair with all these ribbons, and braids, and…” His voice trailed off. Sherlock studied John, then, snaps his fingers. “Mrs Hudson's missing sister!” John nodded, one brow raised. “I think I just met her. Come on!”

   Sherlock pulled John inside and dragged him down the hall. “Uh, I-I-I'm really not supposed to –”

   Sherlock walked him to the little door in the corner wall and pointed. John looked around anxiously, fearful and curious to be in his auntie's old house. “She's in there,” Sherlock stated.

   Reluctantly, John bent down and reached for the key in the lock. “C-can you ­ can you unlock it?”

   Sherlock grabbed his hand, stopping him. “Not in a million years. But it wouldn't matter; she can't escape without her eyes. None of the ghosts can.”

   John stared at him, nodding his head as if he understands his crazy story. He changed the subject, got back to his mission. “Huhhhhhh... So, uh, I really need to get that doll?”

   “Great! I'd love to get rid of it!” Sherlock snapped. He exhaled in a huff, grabbed John’s sleeve, and led him from room.

   Sherlock frog-marched John into his shared bedroom. The doll wasn’t on the bed, or on the chairs, or boxes. “Where are you hiding, you little monster?!”

   John nervously watched Sherlock pull out his dresser drawers and yank cushions off the window seat. “Have you and Auntie talked?”

   “The doll's his spy! It's how he watches you, finds out what's wrong with your life!” Sherlock almost screamed in his frenzy.

   John, trapped like a deer-in-the-headlights, tried to make sense of his remarks. “The doll… is my Auntie's… spy…”

   “NO! The Other Brother! He's got this whole world where everything's better – the food, the scavenging, the –” Sherlock leaned in on him, “– neighbours.” Sherlock held his hands up, “But it's all a trap!”

   John, eager to escape, cupped his hand to his ear by the window. “Yeah… Uh, I think I heard someone calling me, Shelly.”

   Sherlock saw right through him, “Don't believe me…? You can ask Redbeard!

   John moved around her towards the door and turned to leave, “Redbeard… I-I'll just tell Auntie that you couldn't find the doll – Ouch!” A glittery shoe – thrown by Sherlock – hit his arm. John turned back as Sherlock took off the second one.

   “You're not _listening to me_!” Sherlock screamed.

   “That's… ‘cause… you're _crazy_!” John fled as the second shoe flew past. Sherlock growled ferociously and gave chase.

   Sherlock grabbed his shoes from the floor, and chased John down the stairs in his socks.

   The front door flew open and John ran down the front steps to his bike. Sherlock raced down after him. “You creep!”

   “Crazy!!” John called over his shoulder. He ran his bike towards the fallen tree, hopped on and pedalled as fast as he could. And as Sherlock hurled a shoe at him, he gunned the motor and escapes down a side path past the driveway.

   “Crazy…? You're the idiot that gave me the doll!” Out of breath, Sherlock turned away and noticed the Rolls-Royce parked to the side, “Mycroft! Father!”

   Excited, he vaulted over the fallen tree and ran to the car. He looked through the car's window. But the car was empty. He spotted Mycroft’s phone – upon which depended the security of the Free World, apparently – then opened the door to grab it and speed dialled a number. “Pick it up, father, pick it up…” He muttered.

   “Hello,” His father’s voice came through the phone.

   “Father! Whe–”

   “I'm in my lab right now, but leave a message and I'll get right back to you.”

   Sherlock dejectedly looked at the phone, then snapped it shut, “Where have you gone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sherlock... Please review.


	10. Odd taffy and pillows

   Molly was knitting a jumper with wings for a worried-looking Angus, one of the Scotties, who sat on her lap.

   Sherlock sipped his tea, anxious, the other two dogs beside him. “Don't you only make wings for the dead ones?” He asked

   “Just looking ahead dear…” Molly answered, “Angus hasn't been feeling very well of late…”

   “Molly? Aren't you getting ready?” Irene called from the other room.

   “We've lost our ride, Irene. Sheldon says his parents have vanished, quite completely,” Molly informed.

   Irene tightened her elaborate corset behind a screen, using pulleys and hooks. “What?! We've waited months for those tickets!”

   One of the corset hooks fly up and pulled off her wig. She ignored it and came over to address Molly.

   “I suppose we could walk…” Molly suggested.

   “With your gamy legs? It's nearly two _miles_ to the theatre!” Irene announced dramatically.

   Sherlock cleared his throat, frustrated.

   “Oh, oh yes… your missing parents,” Molly sighed, “We know just what you need. Irene, get… that's right.”

   Irene grabbed another dish of old stuck-together taffy and put it in front of Sherlock. “How is a hundred-year-old candy going to help –”

   Molly suddenly raised her knitting needles as if to stab Sherlock. He yelped, hands up in defence. But she attacks the sweets, not him, sending sticky chips flying, making loud grunts as she stabbed.

   She pulled a large, three-sided sweet with a hole in it from the rubble and passed it to Sherlock. “There you go, sweetie.”

   Sherlock studied the odd taffy piece, “What's it for?” He held it up and looked through its hole at the ladies.

   “Well, it might help. They're good for bad things, sometimes,” Molly stated.

   “No, they're good for lost things,” Irene argued.

   “It's bad things, Irene.”

   “Lost things, Molly.”

   “Bad.”

   “Lost.”

   “Bad things!”

   “Lost.”

   “Bad.”

   “Lost.”

   Sherlock couldn't take anymore. He got up, took the odd piece of taffy and left.

~*~

   Sherlock; dressed for bed with his blanket over his shoulder, carrying one of Mycroft’s waistcoats and his brother’s favourite tie – that Greg gave him; walked into his father's room, the photo of him with his parents and Mycroft by the bear fountain at the Detroit Zoo still rested on the nightstand.

   He pulled down the bed covers and built copies of his father and brother out of pillows. He buttoned the waistcoat and tie on one pillow and some reading glasses and a bowtie he had gotten out of his father’s draw on the other. He lay down and pulled up the covers, very sad.

   “Good-night, father; Good-night… Myc,” He kissed them both and began to cry.

~*~

   Sherlock was asleep when one paw, and then two paws, batted his nose. He opens his eyes to find blue eyes staring at him. It was Redbeard, purring loudly. “Hello. How did you get in?” Sherlock asked, “Do you know where Mycroft and Father are?”

   Redbeard blinked, then he headed out the door.

   Sherlock followed him, wrapped in his blanket, to the mirror at the end of the hallway. The mirror started to glow and then an image formed within the glass. It was his brother and father!

   They clung together, blue with cold, as snow fell. “ _Myc_! _Father_!”

   They looked up and, with a desperate look, Mycroft breathed on the inside mirror-glass to fog it. He wrote H E L P  U S. – his fingertip squeaking on the glass. Frost rose up, hiding the letters and then his brother and father. The image faded.

   Sherlock struck at the mirror as hard as he could. The glass shattered and he dropped to the ground, shaking. Redbeard nuzzled him.

   “How did this happen?” Sherlock questioned.

~*~

   Redbeard bounded into the lab, Sherlock followed frailly. From under the desk, the dog dragged out the button-eyed doll, remade into his father on one side, and Mycroft on the other.

   “He's taken them,” Sherlock growled, enraged.

~*~

   Sherlock and Redbeard watched the doll burn in the fire. Sherlock took a breath and looked up at the mantel.

   Sherlock picked up a snow globe, the one of the fountain bears from the Detroit Zoo, and cradled it; remembering the animals, the sunshine, the sound of his mother’s laughter and his brother’s. Mycroft never laughed anymore and didn’t smile unless it was that smug one that made Sherlock want to punch it off his face. It was like his brother had turned to ice.

   “They're not coming back, are they ­ Mycroft and father. Not on their own,” Sherlock stated, trying to be brave.

   Redbeard blinked.

   Sherlock looked over at the locked little door in the corner wall. “Only one thing to do.”

~*~

   Sherlock scrambled around the shared bedroom, getting ready to go.

   He pulled his satchel from the closet, his Belstaff coat, and his boots; grabbed a candle and scalpel, and put them in the bag. He stood to go, taking his deerstalker cap – that Mycroft had given him for a joke – off the chair.

   The odd piece of taffy, the triangle one with the hole, dropped to the floor. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then stuck it in his bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review.


	11. A Game

   Redbeard and - holding a lit candle – Sherlock crawled down the tunnel. He had left the key in the lock, like always. The candle cast huge, flickering shadows along the wall.

   Redbeard, his voice returned, spoke to him, “You know, you're walking right into his trap.”

   “I have to go back,” Sherlock explained, “They’re my family.”

   “Challenge him then,” Redbeard advised, “He may not play fair but he won't refuse. He's got a thing for games.”

   “Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, committing it to his mind palace.

   The door at the end of the tunnel clicked open, the candle blew out and Redbeard vanished into the dark. Sherlock tensed when a voice called out, “Sherlock?”

   “Mycroft?” Sherlock called back.

   There, framed in the open door, Sherlock's real brother, with mussed hair and dressed in his wrinkled three piece suit, called, “Sherlock, you came back for us!”

   “Myc!” Sherlock yelled happily. He ran forward eagerly, out the Other Little Door, throwing his arms out to hug the real Mycroft.

   “Darling brother!” But Mycroft’s voice shifted… to Irish, “Why would you run away from me?”

   Sherlock saw his brother's clothes and hair darken as he wrapped his arms around him. Alarmed, he pushed away and saw the decoy Mycroft change into Moriarty.

   The room lit up with the glowing bug furniture and a fire in the fireplace.

   Sherlock tried his best to be brave “Where are my brother and father?”

   Moriarty's button eyes glittered. “Gosh, I have no idea where your "old" brother and father are. Perhaps they've grown bored of you and run away to France?” His teeth gleamed as he grinned.

   “They weren't bored of me. You stole them!” Sherlock accused.

   Other Father, even thinner than before – which Sherlock didn’t think was possible – his sagging face glowed slightly, his hair in tufts of fur, came up behind Sherlock. He looked like a doll without it’s stuffing…

   “Now, don't be difficult, Sherlock,” Moriarty smiled, “Have a seat, won't you?”

   Other Father, gurgling happily, herded Sherlock onto the walking bug chair.

   Moriarty, standing by the little door, turned to it and clapped his hands. A moment later, a huge rat skittered out of the tunnel – filled again with spider webs and children's things – carrying the key from the real world door.

   Moriarty took the key, locked the door, and – while the armoire bug assumed guard position – he swallowed the key.

   “Why don't you have your own key?” Sherlock asked, offhandedly.

   “Only one key,” Other Father muttered.

   Moriarty pulled a thread by his ear, shutting his mouth, “Shhh! Isn’t there a rabbit you need to feed, _daddy_?” He turned him around, his hands under Other Father’s arms and dragged him out.

   After a moment, Sherlock heard the very faint sound of a finger on glass, just like when Mycroft wrote HELP on the mirror. Sherlock jumped to his feet, looking around the room for a sign of his real family. “Myc, father, where did he hide you?”

   A muffled screen door slammed Moriarty called to him from the kitchen, “Breakfast-time! It is an eating day, isn’t it?”

   Sherlock left the room, but paused in the doorway. “Be strong, Sherlock,” He whispered to himself.

   He sat at the kitchen table in his regular place, his back to the sink. Moriarty, humming happily, prepared a mushroom omelette; fragrant cinnamon buns baked in the oven.

   At the table's center, Sherlock saw the box with his button eyes with needle and thread. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. As casually as he could, he asks, “Why don't we play… a game? I know you like them.”

   Moriarty's button eyes flashed, “Everybody likes games.”

   “Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

   Eggs sizzled and spat on the stove. “What kind of game would it be?” Moriarty asked.

   “An exploring game… a finding things game,” Sherlock answered.

   Moriarty tried to act disinterested, but his fingers drummed with excitement. “And what is it you'd be finding, Sherlock?”

   Sherlock hesitated. “My real family.”

   “Too easy,” Moriarty dismissed and he folded the omelette over in the pan.

   “And… and the eyes of the ghost children,” Sherlock added.

   Moriarty smiled: now it was getting interesting. “Huh,” The meal ready, he turned from the stove and took the food to Sherlock, “What if you don't find them?”

   “If I lose, I'll stay here with you forever and let you love me,” Sherlock indicated the button box, “And I'll let you sew buttons into my eyes.”

   “Hmm... And if you, somehow, win this game?”

   “Then you let me go. You let everyone go – my real father and brother, the dead children, everyone you've trapped here.”

 

   Moriarty smiled a malicious ‘not in a million years’ smile. “Deal.” He held out his hand, but Sherlock didn't reach.

   “Not till you give me a clue.”

   Moriarty snorted and his smile soured. He slowly circled Sherlock, and spoke as if talking to a very stupid child. “Alright… In each of three wonders I've made just for you, a ghost's eye is lost in plain sight.”

   “I don’t like riddles.”

   “Learn to.”

   Sherlock sighed, “And for my parents?”

Moriarty – standing behind him in front of the sink - smiled wickedly and just started tapping his button eye with his finger. Sherlock turned away from him.

   “Fine. Don't tell me…” He shrugged. Extending his hand, Sherlock started to turn back, “… it's a deal –”

   But Moriarty had disappeared and the tapping now was the faucet dripping into the sink.

   Sherlock exhaled, walked to the sink and stared at the dripping faucet. “What does she mean ‘wonders’?” He muttered to himself.

   Out the kitchen window, the garden lit up, answering his question. He furrowed his brow, thinking this was too easy. “Hmmm…” He hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much fun. Please review.


	12. Bluebell rabbits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence towards animals in self defence in this chapter, a little bit of gore but not much. I feel awful, I'm really against harm to animals and I write THIS! Anyway, enjoy.

   Sherlock walked through the garden gates. The bright magic of the garden was darker now, with areas of black against areas of glowing shrubs.

   Behind him, a brick tree ring opened like a monster's mouth and five huge, glowing bluebell rabbits sneaked towards him. They attacked; knock him to the ground, spilling his bag. “No!!”

   They bit at Sherlock’s ankles, knees, hips, waist, and shoulder. They hurt, he was bleeding. Sherlock was just able to grab his scalpel. He slit one rabbit’s throat, then another, and another, until he was free. The dead carcasses seemed to retreat into the rock mouth. Sherlock looked down at the blood stain on his sleeve and felt awful. He would never kill an animal.

   Sherlock, winded, went to gather his spilled things when a trio of Africanised Bees swooped in. They didn't attack him; instead they stole the triangle taffy and lifted off. “Stop!!”

   Sherlock chased them, but they were getting away. As he crossed the little bridge, he took off his deerstalker and flung it like a death Frisbee at them. Score! They fell to the ground, near the shrubs, sawdust spilling out. He picked up the triangle taffy. “Why steal this?”

   With a look of ‘what does he have to lose’, he held it up to his eye and gasped. “Wow...”

   Everything was blurry grey like a pencil drawing, all colour gone. He scanned the garden, turning slowly. As he turned back to where he started, he saw something, right in front of him: a burning red ember. “That must be it. A ghost eye!”

   He lowered the stone from his eye, to see that the ghost's eye was the faded stick shift knob from the praying mantis tractor, which stood right in front of him with the Other Father, at its controls, his own hands imprisoned in the mechanical cello hands.

   Headlights glared and the tractor roared to life. The mechanical hands forced Other Father to shift gears, and the tractor lurched at Sherlock, its arms slashing. He yelled, backing away. Other Father called in a garbled voice, “Sorry, so sorry, Brother making me.” Sherlock backed onto the little bridge as the tractor moved in. “Don't want to hurt you.”

   The Other Father tried to steer the tractor away, but the mechanical hands were stronger. It moved onto the bridge - stupidly smashing through the planks in front of it. Halfway over, it lurched, then started to fall through the hole it had created. The tractor hung precariously for a moment.

   Other Father kicked away one mechanical hand and, with one hand free, managed to pull off the shift knob. “Take it!!!”

   Sherlock dove forward and just grabbed the knob, before the tractor and Other Father fell away and sunk under the water.

   Rippling out from Sherlock like a grey wave, the entire garden became ashen and dead.

   Sherlock caught his breath, shaken. The ghost eye/gear knob glowed red, no magic taffy necessary.

   “Bless you, sir, you found me! But there's two eyes still lost,” The boy ghost’s voice called out.

   “Don't worry, I'm on fire!” Sherlock smirked.

   Sherlock looked past the greyed garden towards the Other House. A lunar eclipse had begun, the full moon a pale acid green. Sherlock looked concerned, then resolved, and headed towards the house. A haunting version of Molly and Irene's show song started to play…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry Bluebell... Please review.


	13. Taffy

   The theatre was quiet and dark, save for light coming through entry curtains. Sherlock spotted the usher's torch on the ground. He picked it up, clicked it on, and stepped forward. He swept the light beam around, apprehensive, then heard something overhead. He aimed the torch up and startled at a nest of bat-winged-dogs. One bared his teeth and growled. He clicked off the light and shivers.

   On stage, one spotlight and footlights faded up on a huge, wrapped saltwater taffy. It hung from ropes and sandbags.

   He cautiously climbed up onto the stage. A human-sized taffy wrapper – striped pale pink and green – could just be seen through the wrapper. He held his triangle taffy to his eye. There was a blue-white glow coming from inside the wrapper.

   Sherlock punched a hole through the thin tissue paper, steeled himself, then reached inside. He touched something sticky and cold and inhuman. Clenching his teeth, he grabbed hold and pulled out two clasped-together cold, taffy-hands – Young Molly and Irene's.

   His heart thumped as he pried the taffy hands open like scallop shells until a large pearl ring was revealed. “The pearl!” Sherlock gasped in realisation.

   The hands suddenly grabbed him, and he screamed. Young Molly and Irene, twisted together into some sort taffy monster, thrust their heads from the bag. “Thief!! Give it back!” They growled in unison.

   Sherlock pulled away, stretching the candy arm out across the stage. The taffy monster thrust out another paired arm, and started dragging itself towards Sherlock, ropes swaying on pulleys.

   “You thief! Thief! Thief! Thief! Give it back! Thief! Give it back! Give it back! Thief! Stop thief! Thief! Stop!” It said, the two voices mixing in an eerie chorus.

   Sherlock, desperate, got an idea. He click on his torch and aimed it at the bat-dogs. They growled with annoyance and opened their wings.

   The taffy monster was getting closer. Sherlock hurled the torch at the bat-dogs and hit them. Angered, they flew down to attack him – just like he planned.

   The bat-dogs were closing on the left, the taffy monster on the right. He waited to the very last second, and then dove out of the way.

   The bat-dogs and taffy monster collided. Sherlock's hand was released from the taffy hands, leaving him with the pearl. The bat-dogs and taffy monster – stuck together and still-as-stone – turned to dead, grey ash, as did the stage and theatre.

   The pearl in Sherlock's hand pulsed blue. “Hurry on, boy – his web is unwinding!” The tall girl ghost encouraged. Sherlock nodded, shoved the pearl in his bag, and looked up towards the ceiling and beyond.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a sad bit next, but not for long. Please review.


	14. Circus rats

    Haunting circus music drifted in the air. The pale green moon was nearly half-eclipsed now with what was clearly the shadow of a huge, dark button.

   Sherlock climbed the last flight of stairs to Anderson's. He stops with a shudder at the top and his eye went wide and glossy with unshed tears.

   The flag had been replaced with the empty coat of other John – gloves, trousers and trainers pinned on - hanging like old washing. “Oh, John…” Sherlock gasped tearfully. He took a breath, leaned out over the railing and shouted, “Evil witch…! I'm not scared!”

   The door behind him creaked open and Sherlock shivered – he was definitely scared.

   Sherlock stepped into the apartment and carefully shut the door. The cannons and Ferris wheel were dark and quiet; the circus tent glowed dimly. Pale green moonlight shone in patches through holes in the roof and the corners and edges of the room were very dark.

   Other Anderson suddenly crawled by the door behind Sherlock. Sherlock whipped around, on guard.

   Mr A loomed up past the cannons on Sherlock’s right, leaning towards him. “Hello, ga-loo-boo-shka.” There were too many joints in his arms and legs.

   “I'm Sherlock,” Sherlock snarled.

   Mr A’s tall, crooked hat was pulled so low, and his collar so high, that his face was completely hidden. He threw out his arm towards Sherlock and the circus ball from the mouse circus rolled from his sleeve to his hand. “Is dis vhat you're looking for?”

   Sherlock looked through the hole of the triangle taffy and saw an amber glow – the third ghost’s eye. “Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. He grabbed for it, but Mr A was too quick. Anderson back-bent to all fours and scuttled around Sherlock towards the back shadows.

   “You tink vinning game is goot ting?” Mr A slurred. Sherlock held up the triangle taffy, scanning the room for him. His voice sounded distorted now. “You'll just go home and be bored and neglected…” He twined up a post behind Sherlock, and crawl out on a beam. “…same as alvays.” He swung upside-down from his ankles, his head stopping right by Sherlock's, who whipped around, alarmed. “Stay here vis us; vee vill listen to you and laugh vis you.” He dropped to the floor on his head, then slithered into the circus tent.

   Sherlock didn’t want to follow him, but he did.

   The Other Mr. A was perched on a pile of mouldy cheeses in the center of the ring. He moved like all his bones were broken. “If you stay here, you can have vhatever you vant, vsig-da – alvays,” Other Mr A tempted.

   Sherlock raised the triangle taffy to his eye and saw the amber glow coming from inside his hat. “You don't get it, do you?” Sherlock moved closer.

   “I don't understand,” Other Mr A whined.

   Sherlock could see small forms move under the back of his coat. “Of course you don't understand. You're just a copy she made of the real Mr. A,” Sherlock accused.

   “Not even that anymore,” Other Mr A sighed with his last breath.

   Sherlock pulled off his hat. Instead of his head, a huge pale rat sat there - holding the circus ball. It barked at him then dove down Other Mr A’s coat collar.

   Rats leapt from Other Mr A’s coat sleeves and trouser legs; Sherlock pulled back, horrified, as the clothes collapsed, scanning around for the circus ball.

   There's a rat bark behind her and she turns. The huge rat - balanced on a wheel of cheese, circus ball in its paws – taunted him, then rolled out the door. Sherlock gave chase.

   The other rats raced behind the twin rows of cannons – the rat rolled through them, heading towards the door.

   Sherlock charged. The cannons, manned by rats, fired cotton candy at him. He was hit in the side, his leg, his ribs; he weaves and stumbled, the shots landing like punches. “Ah! No!!”

   A pet door – perfectly shaped for the rat on the wheel - appeared in the front door as the rat approached.

   Sherlock looked up to see the pet door open and the rat head through it to the outside.

   Sherlock took his triangle taffy and threw it as hard as he could at the rat.

   The whistling taffy flew through the pet door towards the rat, just outside. The rat ducked, the taffy missed, and it escaped down the stairs with the ball.

   Sherlock lurched forward. “NOOOO!” He hollered.

   Two waiting rats - tail tips tied – pulled their tails tight, tripping him. He crashed through the door and out onto the balcony which tore away from the house with attached stairway.

   “Noooo!” He yelled. The whole rig, with Sherlock on top, rotated as it collapsed, throwing him towards the front of the house when it hit the ground.

   Wheezing for breath, Sherlock pushed up on his hands and knees and scanned past the topiaries and shrubs and white gravel driveway, looking for the rat and circus ball. None was found.

   Sherlock, lit by a narrowing band of pale green light, turned to look at the moon. It was nearly covered now by the dark button shadow.

   His hand stung from a scrape, blood trickled from his knee; but he felt nothing but cold loss.

   “Oh God, I've lost the game; I've lost everything,” He sobbed, hugging his knees. The band of light that illuminated him was narrowing to near-gone.

   The head of the rat – circus ball in its teeth – dropped on the ground, Sawdust leaking from its neck. The band of light stopped narrowing, the eclipse paused.

   There was a familiar bark and Sherlock looked up.

   Across from him on the front yard, sat Redbeard, licking his paws, rat's head and circus ball at his feet. “I think I mentioned that I don't like rats at the best of times.”

   Sherlock smiled, walking towards him. “I think you might have said something like that.”

   “It looked like you needed this one, However,” Redbeard batted the circus ball and it rolled to Sherlock.

   He picked it up and stuck it in his bag. Around him, the yard, house, trees, shrubs and driveway turned ashen grey.

   “Thank you,” Sherlock looked toward the house, “I'm heading inside. I still have to find my family.”

   The stalled eclipse started again, and the last sliver of green moon is fully blacked out. The edges of the button shadow started to flake away.

   A strange insect thrumming began. What appeared to be grey paint chips, or bits of paper, were falling. Confused, Sherlock looked up to see the huge button shadow being eaten to nothing, and then the sky around it as well, revealing dirty white light. The destruction travelled from sky to the distant hills; the sound of a million, invisible locusts growing louder. Redbeard growled. Deeply alarmed, they looked from one direction to another.

   The destruction travelled up the driveway, pulling apart the shrubs, and then unravelled the topiary elephant and bird.

   The ground beneath their feet started cracking, white light coming through. Redbeard made a fearful sound, showing his fear to Sherlock for the first time. Sherlock held out his arms to the trembling animal, his guardian angel. “Come on, quickly!” Sherlock called. Redbeard leapt and Sherlock caught him, then carried the dog up the disintegrating steps to the front door. He got through just in time, and slammed the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good boy Redbeard. Please review :)


	15. Spider's web

   It was dark and stable in the hallway, with just some creaks and intermittent vibrations. A poisonous green light spilled from the other living room.

   Sherlock went there, carrying Redbeard over his shoulder, past wallpaper that peeled up as he passed, to the room where he last heard the sound of his brother's finger on glass.  
 ****

A poisonous green fire burned in the fireplace in the other living room. The bug furniture looked grey now, their lights flickering as if short-circuited; legs and wings twitching uncontrollably.

   Sherlock scanned the walls, the ceiling, looking for a sign of his brother and father. He sensed the Other Brother behind him, a creature who was no sort of Brother at all but a witch, Moriarty. He turned.

   Moriarty was hunched on the sofa - his face hidden. "So, you're back..." He stated, Irish voice sounding dry and tired. He turned his face towards Sherlock. It was like a white death mask, cracked and peeling - his true face. "And you brought vermin with you."

   Sherlock shuddered and stepped back. Redbeard made a fearful sound. "No, I ... I brought a friend."

   Moriarty rose up - he was now drawn out like wire to over twelve feet tall. He was whithered to the bone; with plate-like shoulders and hips; his true form. He reaches his long, sharp fingers - now made of needles - to Sherlock's face. "You know I love you," Moriarty told him flatly.  
  
Sherlock worked hard to not show how freaked out he was. "You have a very funny way of showing it."  
  
Moriarty smiled, turned away, then back, his hand outstretched, "So? Where are they - the ghost eyes?"

   Sherlock pulled out the three spheres from his bag and started to hand them over. But he caught himself. "Hold on. We aren't finished yet, are we?"

   Moriarty glared daggers, then smiled sweetly. "No, I suppose not. After all, you still need to find your old family, don't you? Too bad you won't have this." He produced the triangle taffy that Sherlock lost and tossed it into the green fire. He laughed while the magic burned out of the candy with sparks and pops.  
  
The third ghost eye pulsed with amber light in his hand. Sherlock turned away, so the witch wouldn't see. "Be clever, miss; even if you win she'll never let you go!" The sweet ghost girl advised.

   Sherlock looked towards the locked little door behind the armoire bug and understood: he had to get Moriarty to unlock it. He furrowed his brow as an idea came to him then nodded.

   He turned to Moriarty and summoned the most confident tone he could muster, "I already know where you've hidden them."  
  
Moriarty turned from the fire, both concerned and sceptical. "Well... produce them."  
  
Sherlock pointed to the little door. "They're behind that door."

   Moriarty leaned close, knowing Sherlock was wrong, and spoke very quietly. "Oh, they are, are they?" A smile crept onto his terrible face and he started towards the little door, moving in an odd, labouring way, as if he had four legs instead of two. He signalled the armoire bug to stand aside, his back to Sherlock.

   Sherlock heard the soft chirp of Mycroft's finger on wet glass. He looked around, desperate - where was it coming from?!

   Redbeard's ears twitched and focused, and then he saw something on the mantelpiece. He whispered to Sherlock, "There!" and jumped to land beside the Detroit Zoo snow-globe - opaque with frost.With a soft chirp, a section of glass was wiped clear from inside by a tiny forearm - to reveal the tiny, cold figures that were Sherlock's trapped family.

   Sherlock's heart raced. He purposely stayed back from them. "Myc. Dad!" He whispered.

   Oblivious to Sherlock's discovery, Moriarty coughed up the key into his hand. He turned to Sherlock, expectantly. "Go on. Open it. They'll be there," Sherlock faux-assured.

   Moriarty stooped to push the key into the lock, turned it, and left the key in place. He grinned at Sherlock and spoke in a low, sing-song voice. "You're wrong, doofus!"

   He opened the little door, revealing the empty, spider-web tunnel.

   Sherlock glanced from the open door to Redbeard - obscured on the mantel - and back to Moriarty. He thought very hard.

   "They aren't there," Moriarty said pityingly. He opened his hands: one held box with Sherlock's black button eyes, the other a threaded needle. Triumphant, Moriarty softly gloated, "Now you're going to stay here forever."

   Sherlock struck a warrior's pose, and summoned all the fury he could. "No... I'm..." He grabbed Redbeard off the mantel and raised him over his head, "Not!" **H** e hurled Redbeard at Moriarty. The howling animal - face shocked with surprise - sailed through the air and landed right on the astonished witch's head.

   Scared, Redbeard scratched and bit Moriarty as he shrieked and staggered to one side of the little door.

   Sherlock grabbed the snow globe, stowing it in his bag, and moved out to approach the door from the other side.

   Moriarty flailed widely at the dog. Redbeard howled like a banshee and scratched at Moriarty's eyes and the two black buttons clinked as they hit the floor.

Redbeard was thrown onto the armoire bug and Moriarty's hands covered his face."No!" he yelled. His hands pulled away to show empty, flat sockets and torn thread, "You horrible cheating boy!"

   He furiously stomped the floor which flew up in a spiral of floorboards that drove Sherlock to the room's centre. A huge web trap lay beneath the floor. The web trap stretched down into a fifty foot deep pit. There was nothing beyond but pale nothingness.

   Redbeard scrambled along the top of falling furniture, straight to the little door, and disappeared into the tunnel.

   Sherlock fell to the very bottom of the web.

   Fifty feet above, Moriarty laughed manically and leapt down like a large, flying spider. 

   Sherlock managed to pull himself to the outside of the trap just as Moriarty landed.

   The witch - furious his prey had escaped - spun around, grasping blindly. "No!! Where are you? You selfish brat!!"  
  
Sherlock, nearing the top, looked up and spotted the little door, still in the corner wall of the Other Living Room. He went to climb back inside the web, when his bag got caught on a barb. He pulled and pulled until it broke free, sending strong vibrations down the spiralling web to Moriarty's very sensitive hands. He smiled - knowing where his prey was now.

   Sherlock made it to the little door, but Moriarty was coming up behind him very fast. "You... Dare..." Sherlock scrambled through the door, key in hand, and grabbed the door handle. Before he could shut it, "... Disobey your brother??!!" Sherlock kicked him in the face, knocking him back. Redbeard took off down the tunnel.

   Sherlock nearly shut the door, when needle fingers grabbed hold through the cracks. The door started to pull open.  
 ****

"PLEASE... SHUT!!" Sherlock begged.

   The ghost children's fluttery, dismembered hands flew out from his bag and grabbed hold of Sherlock's hands that gripped the door's handle; and his strength was quadrupled. The door started to shut.

   Moriarty snatched desperately at Sherlock, reaching through the closing gap with one thin claw. There was a final moment of resistance - his wire-thin wrist caught in the door - and then the door finally shut, and Moriarty's hand dropped to the ground; his screeches like a metal rake on pavement!

   Sherlock just managed to lock the door in the dark when it was pounded from the other side, green light coming through the cracks.

   Sherlock took off down the tunnel, stooped down, as fast as he could.

   The pounding grew more insistent, green light flashing, "DON'T LEAVE ME! DON'T LEAVE ME!!! I'LL DIE WITHOUT YOU!!!!"

   The tunnel behind Sherlock started to grow shorter, like a collapsing accordion, and the pounding far door with the blind, one-handed Moriarty on the other side started to catch up to him.          

   Ahead, daylight appeared, and then the little door to the real world.


	16. Chapter 16

   Sherlock flung himself through the doorway, shut and locked the door and braced himself against it. A split-second later, the Other World door caught up with a crash. Sherlock was thrown back; but the real-world door and lock held. It was over...

   He lay on his back, as beat-up and tired as he had ever been, gulping in breaths of air until his heart slowed a little. The room was brightly lit by sunlight, the first since he moved there, and the sky out the windows is blue with white clouds.

   He smiled, remembering, and turned to his bag with the ghost eyes and snow globe with his  _family_ inside.

   He opened it up, and searched, shoving aside ghost eyes and his scalpel. But the snow globe was gone.

   He got on all fours and started searching the floor. His hand hit a small puddle by the fireplace, with tiny bits of blue snow. A drip plopped down, then another. He looked up to the mantelpiece and spotted the missing snow globe. He stood up and found that it was broken open, and neither his father, Mycroft or the fountain bears were inside.

   As the last of the snowy liquid drained from the globe, Sherlock's face clouded with confusion and fear: What did this mean and where were his family? Then his  _real_  brother called to him, "Sherlock? We're home!"

   His  _true_   _family_ entered the room from the hallway, a dusting of snow on their shoulders and hair. "Myc! Dad! I missed you so much!" Sherlock ran to his father and brother and threw his arms around them.

   "Missed us? And why are you back to calling me Myc?" Mycroft asked, a little sorely missed amusement playing in his tone... before he noticed the broken snow globe, "Oh no, you broke my favourite snow globe."

   "I didn't break it. It must've broke when you escaped," Sherlock explained.

   Mycroft tutted disapprovingly at his bloody knee, "And cut your knee."

   Siger crouched low, clutching his briefcase. "Sherlock, I asked you to count all the windows, not put your knee through them."

  "But-"

   "Well, get yourself cleaned up," Mycroft's icy voice then warmed, "We're going out tonight."

   "We have a lot to celebrate!" Siger enthused. 

   "You're talking about... the experiment," Sherlock smiled.

   "Of course! What else?" Mycroft rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.  
  
Siger and Mycroft turn to leave the room. "But... look at the snow on your clothes...?" Sherlock tried to point out, but the snow melts without a trace.

   "What's gotten into you, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, confused, then followed his father into the other room.

   Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and looked back to the broken snow globe on the mantelpiece. He cocked his head, deeply puzzled, then left the room.


	17. Dreams

   Sherlock sat in bed - pajamas washed and patched, wounds-dressed, hair shining; The key hanging from a string around his neck. A gibbous moon shines in the clear night sky.

   Siger wrestled with a blue stuffed-toy squid like it was an alien face-hugger then, feigning death, fell on the bed; Sherlock laughed. "So, going to order the decorations?" he asked.

   His dad opened one eye, pretending he had never heard about it. "What's that?"

   "For the garden party!!" Sherlock smirked, pretending to remind him.

   His dad sat up and tickled Sherlock's face with the squid. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

   "Dad!" Sherlock moaned playfully, then turned to Mycroft, who was arranging things on a shelf. "So, Myc. Invitations? Don't forget the invitations."

   His brother nodded, and pointed up, "Even Anderson?"

   "Mr. A's not drunk, Myc; he's just... eccentric," Sherlock explained.

   Siger laughed and bent down to kiss Sherlock. "Good night, Sherlock."

   As he stepped away, Mycroft slipped a slim box under the covers next to his brother. He gave Sherlock an 'I told you so' look, and he and Siger left the room.

   Sherlock sat up excitedly and opened the box - it was the navy scarf he wanted. He draped it around his neck to admire when Redbeard appeared outside his window. "Oh, hello again," Sherlock greeted. He walked over to the window and opened it, "Are you still upset?"

   The dog's expression said 'yes, he was still upset'.

   "I'm really sorry I threw you at him - the Other Brother? -­ it was all I could think of," He explained.

   The dog's angry expression softened. He rested his head on Sherlock's hand, licking his fingers.

   Sherlock exhaled with relief then picked him up and carried him over to her bed.

   Sherlock grabbed his satchel and took out the large pearl, the circus ball, and the grey gearstick knob and held them out to Redbeard. "I think it's time, don't you? To set them free?"

   Redbeard nodded.

   Sherlock put the ghost eyes under his pillow and gently lay down, the dog lying beside him. The two of them closed their eyes, and in no time at all, they dozed off to sleep. 

* * *

_Chimes sounded and golden light began to shine on Sherlock. He turned toward it, shielding his eyes._

_His eyes adjusted to the brightness to see the three ghost children, now transformed into golden angels; eyes restored and small fluttering wings on their backs. "It's a fine thing you did for us, Sir," The sweet ghost girl smiled._

_"Well, I'm glad it's finally over!" Sherlock confessed._   
  
_A shadow crossed the faces of the three children. They gathered around Sherlock and bowed their heads. "It is over and done with... for us," The sweet ghost girl sighed._

_"What about... me?" Sherlock asked._

_The tall girl ghost shifted uncomfortably, then blurted out, "You're in terrible danger!"_

_Sherlock was stunned and gestured for an explanation, "But how? I locked the door!"_

_"It's the key, miss, there's only one and Moriarty will find it," The sweet ghost girl informed._

_The key, on the string around Sherlock's neck, floated out in front of him; he grabs it._

_The three ghost children all embraced Sherlock tenderly. "'T'ain't all bad, sir. Thou art alive... thou art still... living..." The ghost boy whispered._

_They began to swirl around him, spinning faster and faster. Sherlock started to turn and then he -_   


* * *

**-** Rolled himself awake in his own bed.

   Sherlock lifted his pillow and gasped - the ghost eyes were in pieces, like hatched bird eggs. He took out the key on its string and explained to Redbeard, his voice panicked, "I-I've got to hide this somewhere, s-somewhere he can never..."

   Redbeard didn't like the sound of that.

   Sherlock grabbed his blanket and headed to her door, careful not to wake Mycroft who was actually asleep _in his bed_ , but the dog leapt down and blocked his way. "Out of my way!" He sidestepped the cat and left the room, Redbeard glaring after him.

   Sherlock trotted down the stairs and purposefully headed down the hall.

   He passed the living room and then the house.

   In the living room, the little door's baseboard was pushed aside. Through the narrow gap at the door's bottom, the dismembered hand of Moriarty crawled out. It scrambled in Sherlock's direction!  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review.


	18. Real name

   Sherlock moved briskly, the house below, gripping the key that was tied round his neck. Dark, ropey clouds reached like fingers across the moon. Sherlock sang his father's nonsense song, his voice hardly trembling, "Oh... my twitchy witchy boy, I think you are so nice..." he moved down past the old fruit trees, now covered with bright spring blossoms that fell gently like snow, "... I give you bowls of porridge. And I give you bowls of ice cream."

   Moriarty's hand crawled after him. "I give you lots of kisses, And I give you lots of hugs..." 

   Sherlock jammed the same dead branch John used under the well's cover, lining it up over the same fulcrum rock. "... But I never give you sandwiches with grease and worms and mung beans."

   Circling around behind the big stump, the hand scampered behind a rock to a bush to a tree, coming closer.

   Sherlock managed to lever the well's cover off to one side, leaving the whole well open. Huffing and sweating, he wiped his brow, then took the key string that was around his neck.

   The hand, seeing what was about to happen, raced towards him. 

   Sherlock lifted the string and key, not quite over his head.

   The hand jumped onto the big stump and sprung through the air to grab the key and pulled Sherlock to the ground.

   Sherlock made a choked scream, his fingers caught between the key string and his neck. The hand wanted to drag him back to the house.         

   A blinding headlight hit the hand and Sherlock; an air horn sounded; and John Watson - hollering a battle cry all his own - came speeding down the bluff on his whining electric bike. "YAHHHHH!!!!" 

    John gunned the throttle, and, leaning out, grabbed the confused hand with his slug tongs. He circled around and headed towards the well, readying to throw the hand in. But the hand got free, and grabbed the handlebars.

   Out of control, John's bike hit a rock, and he and the hand were thrown into the well. Hollering, he just managed to hang on with one hand. Moriarty's hand, caught on John's coattail, scrambled up his body and face and onto the well's edge, where it stabbed at his fingers to make him fall. "Get off!!" John yelled.

   Sherlock, choking, rose to his feet. He grabbed the blanket and - in the still-blazing headlight of the crashed bike - he ran up and threw it over the hand. It fought hard as Sherlock wrestled to control it. The hand stabbed through the blanket and shook it off, crouching to attack him.

   And then John was back, pumped with adrenaline, a big rock raised over his head. He hurled it down on the leaping hand, breaking it into twenty lifeless needles.

   John struggled to catch his breath. Sherlock - breathing hard - removed the key and string from around his sore neck and pulled up the corners of his blanket - with the needles on it - around the rock, and tied it all together with the string, the key still attached.

   The two boys carried the heavy package to the well and dropped it down the hole. By the light of a stray moonbeam, they watched and listened until it made a muffled splash in the dark water at the bottom, then slid the well cover back in place.

   Still catching his breath, John stood, holding his injured hand, its glove ripped by Moriarty's claw. He looked over at Sherlock as the orchard brightened a little with moonlight. "I-I'm really sorry I didn't believe you about all this... evil stuff, Sherlock."

   Sherlock, shoulders rising as he caught his breath, stood and smiled: he called him by real name for the first time. "Why did you change your mind?"

   John walked over, and took out an old black and white photo from his jacket. "W-well, Auntie showed me this photo, after I called you insane?" He handed it to Sherlock, "It's her and her sister, before she disappeared."

   Behind them, blossoms fell like snow in the orchard. "The sweet ghost girl," Sherlock realised.

   John's auntie, loud and worried, called from the distance, "John! Come home!!"

   "Oh, God... what am I going to tell her?" John worried.

   Sherlock looked up from the photo and smiled. "Just bring her by the house tomorrow," he began and cautiously laced his hand with John's, "We can tell her together."

   "We... we can?" John stuttered, staring down at their joined hands but not protesting.

   "Actually, I'm glad you decided to stalk me," Sherlock laughed, and quickly pecked John's cheek, testing the boundaries.

   "It wasn't my idea," John shrugged, smiling.

   Redbeard jumped up on the tree stump and barked. Sherlock smiled.

   In the sky, the last ropey clouds - like two clawed hands - cleared away from the bright gibbous moon.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! (I know, FINALLY some Johnlock) Please review.


	19. The end

   The sun was shining on the Baker Palace as the tenants relaxed in it's warmth. The garden party was a relaxed affaire, with easy chat flowing amongst the oldest while Sherlock's favourite song - musical nonsense, really - floated out of the speakers connected to his iPod.

   "Well, it was a very strange story," Mycroft laughed, "Sherlock tells it better than I do; he was the one who lived it. I still don't know how much truth there is to it, but John says the part with the living claw of needles is definitely true."

   "Things in Baker Palace are strange," Mrs Hudson added wisely, "My sister and I knew that as well as Sherlock; I'm glad she's resting in peace now. Sherlock will fit in here - there are all sorts of mysteries and adventures to be had - and I think he's found a friend in John."

   "Maybe a little more than a friend," Irene smirked, watching the pair as the lyric began.

_Creaking Van Iddli Fla Lu Va_

_Pretty Sah Lu Feh Iddli Twu Ki Padi_

_Trelly Goilly Doilly Seli Pretty Chedi_

_Emi Swalin Gwoh_

   Sherlock and John were dancing to the lullaby-esque song; John stiff and unsure, Sherlock perfectly poised as always.

   Sherlock gently positioned one of John's hands on his hip and stretched his arm gracefully. "Now, put your hand near my elbow," He instructed, and John followed.

_Seri Ferin Dorin Greh_

_Fairy Seiry Don_

_Sweedes Machin Twinky Doo_

_Fweeden Soreti_

   "I _told_ you there was a tall, handsome beast in his future!" Irene smirked.

   "Irene, there was also danger, lots of danger," Molly reminded, swatting Irene's thigh playfully.

   "And John's not really all that tall," Mrs Hudson chuckled slightly.

_Oosi An Tweeban Retiso_

_Neh-Neh Fehreeden_

_Sindwee Bin Doh_

   "Oh, Sheldon. the meeshkas; dey tell me that   you - are saviour. And - soon as dey are ready - dey vish to give special tenks-you performance," Anderson informed.

   "So there really is a jumping mouse circus," Mycroft clarified.

   "Of course!" Mr A exclaimed.

   "How delightful..." Mycroft smiled airily, and his father looked pleased at the change in his youngest.

_Swin Ting Lan Twenty Some Dring Doli_

_Sweet Lan Bih City Tran Dolinda_

_P_ _retty Leheleni Switi Kull_

_Meli Swimmin So_

   A motorbike roared outside of the garden and Mycroft was off like a shot. Sherlock followed, dragging John in tow.

   The familiar figure stood beside his black metal steed and removed his helmet, spiking his hair to get rid of the compression.

   "Gregory!" Mycroft called, running towards him.

   "Myc!" Greg ran also and soon the pair were wrapped in each others arms, "I missed you." Greg kissed Mycroft's temple and the ginger haired politician blushed.

   "I missed you too..." Mycroft breathed.

   Greg stumbled as the whirlwind that was the youngest Holmes collided with his leg, wrapping around it. Mycroft laughed and Greg was so glad to hear that musical sound again. "Hey, sunshine!" He greeted enthusiastically, "How have you been?"

   "He has a boyfriend now," Mycroft informed, looking proud.

   "Yes," Sherlock nodded, giving the DI's personal space back to him and wrapping an arm around John's shoulders, "DI Gregory Lestrade, this is John Hamish Watson; we have quite a story for you."

   "Really?" Greg asked.

   "Why don't we return to the living room? It's beginning to get overcast and it is a long story. My dear Gregory - truth is stranger than fiction," Mycroft stated.

   "Lead the way, sunshine," Greg offered and Sherlock launched into his story.

   "It all began with a little door behind the wall paper..."

   Mycroft followed behind them, but paused when he heard the last verse of the nonsense song.

_Seri Ferin Dorin Greh_

_Fairy Seiry Don_

_Sweedes Machin Twinky Doo_

_F_ _weeden Soreti_

   Mycroft furrowed his brow. Why did that almost seem to make sense...?

   "Come on, love; don't make me carry you over the thresh hold," Greg laughed.

   Mycroft rolled his eyes fondly. Greg was an idiot sometimes, but he was his idiot. He brushed away the nagging thought in the back of his mind and stepped into the house.

_Crawly is the spider's hand_

_Searching for it's prey_

_S_ _oon you'll be caught next_

_Trapped in the spider's web!_

 

**_The End._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I'm done! I hope you enjoyed and I'd love some reviews.
> 
> Thanks for humouring my madness! :)


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